


Taken

by Fulyric



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Abduction, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attempted Sexual Assault, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Kidnapping, M/M, Mild Language, Minor Violence, Multi, Non-Consensual Bondage, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series Finale, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, monchevy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:08:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 84,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23281513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fulyric/pseuds/Fulyric
Summary: Philippe believes he is meeting his lover for a clandestine rendezvous.  He is unprepared for what actually awaits him.Now the Duc d'Orleans is at the mercy of rebels who hope to use him to manipulate the King for their own ends.  And the Chevalier de Lorraine will do everything in his power to save the man he loves before it's too late.Takes place after the series ends.
Relationships: Chevalier de Lorraine/Philippe d'Orléans | Monsieur (Versailles 2015)
Comments: 105
Kudos: 164





	1. Chapter 1

_Let us meet at the Grand Canal a half hour before noon._   
_Left bank, at the junction. A surprise awaits you!_   
_Tell no one - they can't disturb us if they don't know where to look!_   
_I await the hour with baited breath._   
_Your Chevalier_

Philippe smiled at the note that had been left on his desk. He had found it after returning from the early morning's devastatingly dull council meeting, where names for a possible successor to the late advisor Colbert were finally being discussed. This brought talks of budgets which no one currently on the council had a head for so early in the morning, so everyone had left grouchy and dissatisfied. This little note was swiftly turning Philippe's mood around. 

The Chevalier had gotten up even earlier this morning, as the King had called upon him to help prepare for the fete that was supposed to occur on Friday eve and last all weekend to celebrate the visiting ambassador from Spain. The Chevalier had not been asked for any such social direction since the whole affair with the Protestants and his imprisonment. He had not necessarily minded losing his position, at least not too much. But it did put him back in a depressing (to him) level of dependence on Philippe, albeit within a more emotionally equal relationship. The King’s invitation to oversee this event, despite any objections Madame de Maintenon might have made about his involvement, meant a return to the sovereign’s good graces, which could only benefit them both for however long it might last. However, this made the days increasingly busy and long as the fete grew nearer. Philippe and the Chevalier were only able to spend quality time together in the evenings. After being apart for so long, it was time that they cherished, but still was all too brief since both were tired from their respective duties.

It seemed his lover had planned to steal some more time with him during daylight hours. The prospect delighted him.

“Are you changing your clothes?” His wife Liselotte came into his room and noticed his smile. “What is that you’re reading?” she asked, looking over his shoulder at the note.

“The Chevalier left it for me. I’m supposed to keep it a secret,” Philippe smirked, allowing her to see the note. “However, perhaps you’d be willing to run interference should my brother start sniffing around for either of us at half past 11?”

Liselotte smiled, not minding at all being an accessory to her husband’s tete-a-tete with the Chevalier. Indeed, she was probably their biggest supporter. She loved them both and was happy at their happiness, which made them wish to include her in it. It was especially refreshing after so many months of trial between them all. “You can count on it. What is this surprise he references?”

“You don’t know?”

“No, he’s not told me anything about it.” At her husband’s arched eyebrow, she put a hand over her heart and laughed. “I swear, I know nothing! He has not confided in me about any secret plans. I've hardly seen him these past few days.”

"Nor have I." Philippe put the note down on the night table and turned to the mirror to evaluate his appearance. He wanted to look nice for his lover, especially since, during their separation, his wardrobe had gone to hell. There were several choices of clothes on the bed and he was deliberating which would be most suitable. This always took some time when the Chevalier was not there to put his oar in. “You really don’t mind if I leave you to your own devices for luncheon?” Philippe asked, looking at his wife’s reflection just behind him. He sometimes couldn’t believe his fortune that his spouse was not only tolerant of his love for another man, but also encouraging of their relationship.

“Not at all, don’t worry about me. You two need this. And wear the dark blue,” Liselotte added, holding up the midnight-colored brocade coat. “You look splendid in that. Neither of us wants to see you in black anymore. Just don't get it dirty,” she added with a wink. “Now hurry up and finish dressing! You said half past 11? It’s almost the top of the hour now.”

“Oh, damn!” Philippe exclaimed. He dressed in his selected finery (the dark blue coat was an excellent choice), and with a quick peck on his wife’s cheek, left his rooms to make the walk out past the gardens to the Grand Canal.

* * *

Philippe was slightly out of breath when he reached the junction of the Grand Canal, where it was bisected by a smaller channel that gave it the appearance of a cross. There, at the corner on the left bank, in the shade of the trees, was a young man of medium attractiveness wearing the livery of Versailles. He was not a servant that Philippe recognized, but then he rarely paid attention unless they were of unusual appeal, which this one was not. “Good morning, Your Highness,” he said, standing at attention when he saw the Duc d’Orleans approach.

“Hello. Um, I’m looking for the Chevalier de Lorraine…” Philippe scanned the area and saw no one else. “I was trying not to be late,” he added, by way of apology to his unseen lover, just in case he was within earshot.

“Yes, sir. The Chevalier told me you would be arriving. You are right on time. He will be joining you momentarily. In the meantime, he wished to offer you some wine.” The attendant gave a shy, nervous smile, and hesitantly held out the silver tray that held a bottle of red and two full glasses, along with a small bowl of sumptuous-looking strawberries.

Philippe couldn’t keep the smile from spreading on his face as he helped himself to one of the glasses. _Oh, so he’s going to ply me with wine, is he? Well, then. Ply away, my love._ He downed a third of the wine, smacking his lips as he felt a sweet aftertaste on his tongue that was a bit excessive, but not unpleasant. _Slow down_ , he thought. Clearly, this was a dessert wine that didn’t need to be gulped. Besides, it wouldn’t do for him to be tipsy before things even got started.

“Thank you. So, what now? Do I just wait here?”

“Yes, your Highness. It will be only a few more moments. The Chevalier wants everything to be just right.”

Philippe nodded. _That sounds like him. So dramatic._ But he loved it. He took one of the strawberries and popped it into his mouth as he strolled toward the edge of the canal with his wine glass. The valet remained where he was, respectfully keeping his distance and holding his tongue, as a good royal attendant should. Ready to serve but not to be a bother until he was needed. Hopefully he would have the sense and discretion to make himself scarce should an afternoon delight be forthcoming.

Sipping his wine, Philippe gazed out at the “Little Venice” his brother had created and contemplated what the “surprise” was that the Chevalier’s note had referenced. Was it just the simplicity of seduction and the sweetness of a private rendezvous, far from the eyes of the court and more importantly, the interference of the Sun King? Honestly, that would be enough for him. Or did his spontaneous sweetheart have something else in mind which required a setting such as this? As he let his mind consider the possibilities, it seemed like the sun bent itself over the water, warping the shape. He blinked his eyes, but it didn’t help the unsettling feeling that was starting to prickle in his body.

Something was wrong. The edges of his vision blurred, and he was beginning to feel lightheaded. “I feel…strange,” he murmured, almost to himself. He slowly turned to the valet, even that small movement making his head spin. “I’m starting to feel rather ill. I think I should go back…” He shook his head to clear the fog away.

“Would you care for some more wine in your glass, Monsieur? It will revive you.”

Philippe tried to focus on the valet. The boy looked at him expectantly, but made no move towards him. “I don’t want more wine. I want to go back inside. You can tell the Chevalier that I will meet him back in my rooms.” He attempted to march back to the palace, but the world tilted. He felt his knees buckle, he felt the wine glass slip from his hand and land in the soft grass without shattering. He found himself sitting on the ground, breathing heavily and trying to get his bearings as the world continued to spin around him. “Get… get someone to help me…” Again, he noticed the valet did not try to assist him. The lad just stood there and watched him, with his tray of wine. _The wine… it tasted strange and I didn’t feel this way until I drank it._

The prince shakily pointed an accusing finger at the valet. “There’s something wrong with that wine! What did you do to it?”

“Nothing, Monsieur,” the valet responded blandly, shaking his head, but still making no move.

“You’re lying…You’ve poisoned me!” At this point, Philippe was fighting the dizziness with every ounce of strength he had. Whatever was in that wine, it was acting fast. “The Chevalier is on his way…” he murmured, distantly noting the slur in his speech. _He’ll be here soon… he’ll help me..._

“No, he isn’t. The Chevalier has no idea you’re out here,” a new voice supplied. Philippe gazed up and attempted to focus his eyes on the newcomer. A man… someone he did not know… “Don’t worry. It’s you we want.” The voice was matter-of-fact, almost reassuring in its bluntness.

 _We…._ Blearily, Philippe suddenly noticed the other figures coming out of the trees towards him. The valet stepped back to allow the men to approach the fallen prince. _They want me… for what?_

_An ambush..._

_Treason…_

“No…” he grunted. With all his flagging energy, he pulled himself to a standing position. “Stay away from me… I command you…” He put out his hand to signal the men to stand back, trying to turn and see where each individual was so he could find an escape route. In his stupor he could not tell how many there were. He swayed, and while he was off-balance one of the men grabbed him. His attacker brought him easily to the ground, and pinned him there.

“No! Let me go!” he tried to shout, but his words were slurring even more and he had no strength to make his voice louder than a whimper. “Help me! Please let me go!” He looked to the valet, who was standing by and watching things unfold. “You! You traitor! Why won’t you help me?” The valet finally had the decency to look a bit guilty, but still made no attempt at aid.

“No one is coming to help you,” the calm voice said, as if he was soothing a child’s nightmare. “Just relax. It'll go easier for you that way.”

As he struggled, Philippe heard someone new to his left say, “Hurry up! Let’s get this done.” He did not recognize that voice, either. It was not like the first voice that had spoken to him, but a low growl that seemed more dangerous, more anxious. Before he had an opportunity to wonder who the command was addressed to, he felt a cloth pressed into his face. His nose was filled with a sickly-sweet smell and darkness began to envelope him in earnest. 

Had he been in command of his senses, he might have been able to fight back with full strength, or escape. But the drugged wine had done its work. It didn’t take much for the chloroform to finish the job. Soon the Duc d’Orleans was rendered fully unconscious, leaving him at the mercy of the strangers from the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been sitting in my drive for months - since the summer of last year. It's been almost a decade since I posted any of my fanfiction, because a.) life, b.) anxiety, c.) in my mind, it's hot garbage. But I found new inspiration since the quarantine began.  
> So since I have time on my hands, I thought I would run it up the flagpole and see if it was any good. It is not beta-read, and again, it's several months old. My thought process was, linking back to something said about if there had been a season 4, both Alex and George would have wanted to direct episodes. This is a storyline George could direct because it's so Philippe-heavy.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hello, my dear! Come to watch the circus, have you?” The Chevalier greeted Liselotte with familiarity, while directing some servants to decorate the ballroom to his specific instructions. “You know, I just watched the most charming Moorish dancers audition for the fete on Friday. I know our guests from Spain will enjoy them, but our Madame de Maintenon might find their performance too… titillating. Which means they’re perfect,” he teased with a smirk, knowing Liselotte shared his dislike of the King’s new “wife.” 

“What on earth are you doing in here? You realize you’re late, don’t you?” Liselotte chided him, frowning over his obliviousness.

“Late for what?” the Chevalier asked, distractedly. Calling over to the servants, “Drop those flowers and you’ll be executed before they hit the ground. I mean it!” 

“Your meeting with Philippe. The one by the canal? You told him to be there at half past eleven.”

“When did I tell him that?” This was news to the Chevalier. He began to rack his brain through his entire day’s schedule. _There was the meeting with the vintner this morning, the review of the menu for the banquet, the dancers… Did I arrange to meet Philippe? I’ve had so much to do, I don’t see how I could have planned such a meeting, no matter how much I desired it._ His mind was drawing a complete blank. 

“In your note. Oh, for God’s sake, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your own tryst!” Liselotte rolled her eyes. “I swear… Now he’ll be in a _mood_ for the rest of the day, and I am NOT going to be the one to clean up that mess!”

“Wait, wait, wait!” The Chevalier interrupted. No doubt if he _had_ made such an error, Philippe would certainly be annoyed with him, and understandably so. But he truly didn’t understand what the Princess Palatine was saying. “Liselotte, my dear, I don’t know what you’re talking about! What note? I haven’t had a chance to speak to Philippe since last night before bed.”

“But the note you left for him this morning.... I saw it. It said you were to meet together by the Grand Canal and you had a surprise for him. He thought you had arranged for a private rendezvous. He went to meet you over an hour ago.”

The Chevalier stared at her with growing unease. “I wrote no such note.” 

“Well, _someone_ did, and they signed your name to it. Philippe certainly thought it was from you. If you didn’t write it, who did?” Liselotte asked, growing steadily more concerned as the story threads were not adding up. 

“I don’t know, but you have me worried now. Where is this note?” _None of this_ _makes any sense,_ the Chevalier fretted. 

“Back in his room, I believe.”

“Show it to me,” the Chevalier demanded as he turned on his heel and walked quickly toward the Orleans’ suite of rooms, not waiting to see if she would follow. Ordinarily, he would never have allowed his voice to assume such a demanding tone over a woman of Liselotte’s rank, friendship or not. His station was too humble to allow for such a breach of etiquette, even if she did choose to forgive it. But his stomach had begun to feel quite upset at the possibility of Philippe being lured away from the palace walls under false pretenses. Even more upsetting was the idea that his name had been used in this way against his lover. 

“Do you think it was meant to be some kind of joke?” Liselotte asked, scurrying behind him, her skirts billowing around her. She was smaller than he was, and was practically sprinting to keep up with his pace. “What could possibly be the purpose for such a trick? And who would gain from it? I don’t understand.” 

“Nor do I, but I don’t like it. Not one bit.” 

They arrived at the suite and Liselotte brought him into her husband’s bedroom. Both hoped they would find Philippe there, and then perhaps all three of them could unravel the mystery together. 

Philippe was not there. But when the two blondes saw what was on the bed, they both stopped in their tracks. Liselotte brought her hand to her mouth in shock and gasped “Oh my God!”

The Chevalier recognized the material of Philippe’s beautiful dark blue coat - material which he had helped pick out - in tatters on the Duc d’Orleans’ bed. He had selected it because it brought out the warm tones in Philippe’s beautiful light eyes, which could be so changeable, from green to grey to blue. And someone had shredded that fine coat to pieces. There looked to be a folded piece of parchment in the midst of the pile, the words _Le Roi Soleil_ visible on the outer fold. “Tell me he wasn’t wearing that today,” the Chevalier murmured, his eyes glued to the destruction. When Liselotte couldn’t find her voice, he shakily commanded, “Alert the King. At once. Don’t touch anything else in these rooms. We’ll need to search the palace and the grounds…question any servants that have been in here...” He trailed off, losing his voice as a feeling of true fear squeezed his throat. _It must be a mistake… It has to be a mistake… This better not be a joke, because it isn’t funny. Mignonette, when I find you, I’ll kill you for making me worry like this._

* * *

His head throbbed. As Philippe worked his way back to consciousness, his thoughts awakened quicker than his body. _I’m hungover… But I don’t remember getting drunk…_ A memory flashed - the Grand Canal, the enclave of trees, where he was supposed to meet his Chevalier. The young attendant, with the offer of wine. The strange taste that lingered. The ill feeling that had come after only half a glass. _There was something wrong with the wine… It was drugged…_ The men who had come from behind the trees... _I was ambushed._

Philippe realized he was lying down on a scratchy surface, and his body felt compressed. He finally found the energy to open his eyes, but was met with resistance. As he gained more awareness, he realized he couldn’t see. Something was covering his eyes. Instinctively, he tried to reach up in order to push whatever it was away, but found he couldn’t move his arms. _Fuck, someone’s tied me up,_ Philippe realized in growing alarm. He pulled at his restraints, deducing that there was rope binding his wrists behind his back. Some experimental wiggling told him that his ankles had been bound as well. _Keep calm,_ he warned himself. _I need to think._ He stilled his body and tried to take in information with the senses that he still had at his disposal. _I don’t hear anyone else near me, and I’m sure if there was someone around they’d notice I was awake and trying to move. So I’m alone, at least for now. I don’t think I’m hurt… I can get out of this. I have to. But first, I need to see where I am._

Discomfort followed as Philippe moved his head against the surface he was lying on, trying to drag the blindfold upwards away from his eyes so that he could get his bearings. After feeling as though he would rub his face raw, he finally managed to inch it up high enough where he could shake it off his head. 

There was no one else around, friend or foe. His blurry eyes found an unfamiliar room, narrow but with a high ceiling, stone walls, no windows, only a dimly glowing torch in a sconce upon the wall near the heavy wooden door. Philippe was lying on a makeshift pallet on the floor - a thin mattress filled with straw or sawdust that was covered with a scratchy, thin woolen blanket. As his eyes adjusted, he noted a small circular table and a chair in the middle of the room, a couple of large barrels, and several sparse racks for wine bottles against two walls, stretching from the floor to the ceiling. It looked as though the racks had been picked nearly clean. _Looks like someone’s wine cellar…someone's poorly stocked wine cellar._ His mind flickered back to the wine he had sampled that had led him to this point. 

With his heart hammering inside his chest, Philippe next set about the task of freeing himself. He did not know how much time he had to do so - his captors might return at any moment, and who knows what they had in store for him. He managed to sit up on the mattress and, despite a very minor headache left over from his intoxication, was relieved that he felt relatively healthy. A few twists and pulls of his wrists proved futile. He realized he couldn’t just slip out of the ropes, nor could he find leverage to twist his hands to reach the knots that secured him. He would need to find something to cut through his bonds. He decided to abandon that direction for the moment, and instead see if he could free his feet. At least then, he’d be able to take stock of the room and see if there wasn’t something around he could use to his benefit.

It took more contorting than Philippe was used to, since he had to reach from behind. After about ten minutes of uncomfortable struggling and stretching, feeling as though his back would break, he finally managed to undo the main knot at his ankles. Sweating and slightly out of breath, he quietly cheered himself for his success as he wriggled and kicked his way free from at least a fraction of his imprisonment. 

It dawned on him that he had been divested of his coat and lace cravat, as well as his shoes. He didn’t see any of his stolen attire around, so he proceeded to stand up, wincing as the cold stone floor bit through his thin stockings and into the soles of his feet. _They were being merciful in putting me on that mattress…_ he realized. As uncomfortable as it had been to lie upon, it was far better than being tossed onto that unforgiving floor. 

Looking around, Philippe tried to find any device that he could use to free his hands. A quick exploration of the small room came up empty. What few wine bottles remained were up too high on the racks. Breaking one might be too noisy anyways. He eyed the burning torch for a moment, then shook his head. _That’s a terrible idea. It’s out of my reach as well, and I’d only succeed in setting myself aflame. Worst idea I have ever thought of. Think of something else…_

Philippe looked at the large wooden door, the only possible exit. _I don’t know what is beyond that door, but I need to get out of here as quickly as possible, even if I can’t get my hands untied. I will worry about it later when I’m far enough away, or when I find help. The question is, can I even get through it?_ He stood by the door, listening carefully for any telltale sounds beyond it. Were there people on the other side? Did it lead outside or to another room? It was a risk, but he had to try now, while he was unguarded and at least partially unrestrained. If he didn’t seize this moment, there might not be another one for him. 

Angling his body, Philippe twisted his wrists so that he could grip the iron handle of the door. He winced as he attempted to turn it, the tight ropes digging into his flesh. The handle squeaked terribly, which made him wince even more. But it wasn’t locked. However the door itself was quite heavy. Had he no physical limitations, he would have easily succeeded. But as it was, the first two pulls did not manage to budge it. He had to reposition himself and turn the handle again to prepare enough physical momentum to pull it hard enough. _Come on, Philippe…_ he urged himself. Gritting his teeth and using every muscle available to him, he tugged the door open.

Philippe was not prepared for a stronger force on the other end to push the door open so swiftly that it sent him crashing to the floor. He grunted in pain, for he was not able to catch himself, and his hip took the brunt of the impact. He was even less prepared for the three men who swarmed inside the room and surrounded him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After rereading what I had, I tweaked things a little bit. I felt that some of the reactions were not in keeping with the characters' true personalities (when I originally wrote it, I had only seen Versailles once all the way through. There have been several rewatches since then). Since I'm now working remotely and have to maintain "office hours" for instructional support, I will probably upload on Wednesdays/Thursdays, and Sundays, depending on how stressed out I am. 
> 
> Originally this was solely Philippe until the climax, but part of the rewrites is adding more Chevalier. Because who doesn't need more Chevalier in their lives?


	3. Chapter 3

Stunned and bruised from the fall, Philippe looked up at the men from his position on the floor. They were of varying sizes and ages. All of them looked to be of the peasantry - their clothes, while in decent repair, were plain and built for labor. One of them said, “Were you headed somewhere, Monsieur?” Philippe instantly recognized the voice. This was the first man who had spoken to him at the Grand Canal as the drugged wine was taking effect. He didn’t seem angry or upset; his voice was more amused, as if Philippe were just a mischievous child that had been caught doing something naughty. “I’m afraid you aren’t going to be leaving us just yet.”

Signaling the others, all three men moved towards him. Philippe recoiled. “No! Stay away from me! Keep back!” he yelled. The largest one of them reached down, seizing him by his upper arms and yanking him roughly up to his feet. “Ow! Let go!” The royal captive writhed, trying to wrench himself free from that vice-like grasp. “Get your hands off me, you bastard!” Though Philippe was reasonably tall, he was slight of frame. The big man had the advantage of greater size and more muscle, and Philippe, despite his considerable fighting skills, did not have the use of his hands at the moment. 

“I told you we should’ve used more rope on him,” the large man grunted, his voice menacing. He dragged Philippe over to the single chair in the room. The prince’s feet hardly touched the ground. He was unceremoniously dropped into the chair and his bound hands were draped over the back rung. The man pinned him in place as he violently tried to escape. 

“Yes, yes. You were right,” the first man said in a conciliatory voice, addressing the brute and ignoring Philippe’s barrage of protests as he reached into the deep pockets of his coat and pulled out several coils of thin rope. “I acknowledge I gave more consideration to comfort than to effectiveness.” He tossed a couple of coils to his large companion, and then got the attention of the younger kidnapper, who was standing by looking a little shell-shocked. “Make yourself useful, Mathieu.” The one called Mathieu jerked himself into action and retrieved the piece of rope Philippe had managed to escape from earlier. Despite Philippe’s multiple attempts to kick him in the face, the young man was able to quickly rebind his ankles and also to attach them to the bottom rungs of the chair. As this happened, the medium-sized man who gave the instructions used his rope to tie Philippe’s legs above the knees. Thus, with these two working in tandem, his bottom half was restrained and his kicking defense was lost to him. 

Meanwhile, Philippe felt his arms being drawn together by the big man behind him. He hissed in surprise and discomfort as his elbows were bound, not quite to the point of touching, but close enough to remove any motion or leverage he might still have been able to achieve. And it did _not_ feel good. “Ow! Fuck! That hurts! What the fuck are you trying to do to me, you son of a bitch?” As his bonds grew tighter, the Duc d’Orleans’ speech became increasingly coarse. He was in battle mode, and his language reflected the battlefield. The big man grumbled to himself as he tied off Philippe’s elbows to the back of the chair. 

The realization that he was truly trapped now made him fight even harder. “How dare you do this to me!” he yelled, livid. “I command you to release me this instant! You fucking traitors!” He didn’t even register how the ropes dug into his flesh as he thrashed about. In desperation he began to shout to anyone who might be nearby to give him aid. “Help me! Someone! Please help me!” 

The large one abruptly cut off his shouts by clapping a big, callused hand over his mouth. “For God’s sake, shut up!” the man growled. This only served to anger Philippe even more, and he struggled to pull his head away from its entrapment while still trying to call for help. He made an attempt to bite the hand that held his mouth and jaw, but even when his teeth managed to nip the palm, the man strengthened his grip. “Quit trying to bite me, you little fuck, or I’ll snap your neck!” 

“No, you won’t,” the medium-sized man retorted sternly. “I don’t care if he bites your hand off, Renard - his neck will remain unsnapped.” Addressing the captive, he said, “Monsieur, I would advise you to calm yourself. No one is around to hear you, so shouting will only hurt and exhaust you. You _will_ be restrained while you are with us, whether you like it or not. You may as well cooperate. I can always drug you again, if necessary.” Philippe grunted something decidedly unchivalrous, but the threat stilled his movements. The man smiled at him.

“Now, once you’ve settled down, I will be happy to speak with you as a gentleman. I’m sure you have questions about your predicament, and I doubt you are comfortable with my cohort clutching your face. Is that right?” Philippe managed to nod even with the big brute holding his mouth closed. “Well, then. Let’s try a civilized conversation at a reasonable volume. Shall we?” Again, Philippe nodded. “Alright. Remove your hand, Renard, and keep working on making our guest comfortable.” 

As soon as his mouth was free, Philippe growled, “If _this_ is your idea of comfort for a guest, I have some very strong concerns about where you learned hospitality.” He took a moment to stretch his jaw out and to toss his mussed hair back from his face. As he tried to compose himself and slow his breathing, the man called Renard continued to secure him. Rope was wrapped around his torso, holding him against the chair back and further pinning his arms down. Renard gave several sharp tugs to finish off the knots, and everything was made disagreeably tighter. “You don’t have to be so mean about it, you know!” Philippe chided him through clenched teeth. _He did that on purpose, the big bully! I barely bit him at all._

Addressing the leader (for that was what he assumed the medium-sized man was), Philippe assumed a similar conversational tone. “Rather excessive, don’t you think?” he said wryly, indicating the state he was in. Despite his anger, he knew he was at an extreme disadvantage. He had to meet them at their level, and the only way he had to do so was verbally. _I will not show fear. I will not beg. I am a Prince of France._

“You’ve proven to be quite a wily hostage,” came the reply. “We need to make sure you won’t try to escape again.”

“Yes, well… _bravo,”_ Phillipe’s voice dripped with sarcasm, and he paused to try to blow one annoyingly errant curl away from his eyes. _I shudder to think how I must look right now… No wonder this peasant is smirking at me._ “Who are you?” he demanded.

“You may call me Etienne.”

“Etienne what?”

“We’re all friends here - first names will suffice. Though in deference to your rank, we can continue to call you Monsieur, or Your Highness, if you’d prefer.”

“I do prefer.” _Fine, they aren’t going to come out with their whole names to me. I suppose it’s enough that I know what they look like. If… WHEN I escape I can identify their faces._ “What do you want with me?”

Etienne approached him carefully. “Let me start by assuring you that we intend you no harm, Your Highness.”

“You’ve drugged me, kidnapped me, and tied me up. At this point, I don’t think our relationship is built on trust, _friend,_ ” Philippe said bitterly. “What are you expecting my brother to give you for my ransom?”

“We are not asking for ransom. What we hope to gain from holding you is more important than that.” Etienne leaned himself casually against the round table. “Have you heard of a group of dissidents called the Remnant?”

“No. Should I have?”

“It’s a network of underground Protestants that are resisting the King’s revocation of the Edict of Nantes. You at least know about that, correct?”

“Of course I do!” Philippe glared at him. 

“Then you know that since the Edict was revoked, Protestants have been stripped of their property and basic rights. Those who do not convert to the Catholic faith are evicted from their homes and their holdings taken by the Crown.” Etienne frowned, and Philippe could hear from the edge in his voice that he was holding in his anger. And, surprisingly, he could understand why.

“For what it’s worth,” Philippe ventured. “I do not agree with the persecution of Protestants. I think it’s unfair and unreasonable to try to dictate people’s consciences and to punish them for their beliefs when it does not harm anyone.”

Etienne nodded. “We appreciate your solidarity, Monsieur. However, you do not dictate government policy.” Philippe sighed at that bit of truth. His sympathy did not count for much without action to back it up. Etienne continued, “The Remnant began as a secret network to aid those who could not go against their beliefs and refused to convert. It found ways to shelter people forced out of their homes and sneak them out of the country safely and keep some fortunes intact. We are called the Remnant because we have chosen to remain behind to aid our countrymen, rather than escape ourselves. But our resources are limited, and too many people are suffering, regardless of station or privilege. And there are some of us that are tired of all the injustice.”

Gesturing to his companions, he said, “There is a portion of the Remnant who are going to make change. As the prophet Isaiah said, ‘Now in that day the remnant of Israel and those of the house of Jacob who have escaped will never again rely on the one who struck them, but will truly rely on the Lord.’ Like a prophet, we will show the King, the one who struck us, that his choices harm his people. But we need his attention first,” Etienne said, purposefully looking at Philippe.

“So I’m to be used as a bargaining chip, then?”

“We will… _encourage_ the King to reconsider the Edict of Nantes, or possibly to redraft a new policy. I can appreciate a Sovereign's need to save face after a blunder of this magnititude. All we want is the restoration of our rights as citizens and freedom to privately worship as we wish. Once this is granted, you will be released.”

“And what if the King does not meet your demands?” Philippe inquired, knowing quite well that Louis would not take kindly to being dictated to by peasants. 

“The King is also your brother. He will not put you in jeopardy when he has the means to change the laws. After all, he changed them to begin with. All it would take is a word from him. Surely he would be willing to amend his decisions if he realized they would negatively impact his own flesh and blood.”

 _Oh, that's rich._ “You’ve never met my brother, have you?” Philippe smirked ironically. He had no doubts about the outcome of Louis being asked to yield his authority and admit being fallible just for his sake. _A blizzard in July is more likely..._ “So when he refuses to do as you request, which I can promise you will be the case, I will die for it?" _Louis, I swear to God, if your pride gets me killed, I WILL HAUNT YOU._

Etienne shook his head quickly. “Oh no, Your Highness. That is not our intention at all. I said we meant you no harm, and I stand by that. If you do wind up succumbing, it will likely be a result of weakness in your own constitution.”

“I beg your pardon?” That wasn't as reassuring as Philippe thought it was going to be. 

The rebel leader smiled at him. “Tell me, how do you think you’d fare at sea?” Philippe’s eyes widened in confusion and alarm. “If your brother won’t cooperate to ensure your safe release, then you will meet the same fate as that of the people he has persecuted. You will find yourself shipped off to Louisiana, never to set foot in this country again. And if you happen to survive the voyage, you will land in the New World with the identity of a criminal. An inmate forced to work on a chain gang is the best case scenario. Though, if you insist that you are the Duc d’Orleans, it’s more likely you’ll be thrown into a madhouse. I'm sure they exist over there.”

“Y-you can’t do that,” Philippe stammered, feeling the ropes constricting his chest as he tried to breathe deeply. “I’m a Prince of France!” He felt foolish saying that, since it was obvious no one in the room cared. But he was at a complete loss for how to react to the plans that had been revealed to him. 

“Let’s hope, for your sake, that your brother remembers that.” Etienne turned his attention to his cohorts, signalling the end of the conversation. “Now it’s time to check in with the King. He should be aware of the situation by now. Mathieu, you will be Monsieur’s personal guard. Watch over him, make sure he remains secure, but also make sure he remains safe. No one is to touch him unless he is close to freeing himself. If it comes to it, here is the chloroform.” Etienne pulled a small bottle from his pocket and handed it to the designated man. “But that is only to be used as a last resort. We need to save it for later, just in case the King makes a poor choice. Renard, you will monitor the doors and keep watch upstairs. But before you leave, if you will double check the integrity of the ropes. And while you’re at it, go ahead and gag Monsieur.”

“What?” Philippe exclaimed, alarmed. “No, wait, you ca-aughmmf!” His protest was interrupted as the man, Renard, who had stood behind him during the whole interview, roughly shoved a piece of cloth, likely a handkerchief, into his mouth. Before he could spit it out, the band of fabric which had been used as his blindfold was now pulled between his teeth, trapping the wad of cloth further in. He grunted in discomfort and fury as the thug tied the band tightly behind his head, taking no care of the long, tangled raven hair that was sharply pulled into the knot. Philippe made several unintelligible sounds of anger as he tried to dislodge the gag, but it wouldn’t budge. He pulled against his bonds with renewed fervor, but no amount of struggling brought any slack to the ropes. 

When it was all said and done, Philippe was muffled, restrained, and under guard inside the cellar. There was no getting out of this situation, not without some sort of help. He only hoped rescue or release would come soon. Both of which, he realized, would depend on his brother. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The biblical text Etienne quotes is Isaiah 10:20-21.
> 
> The Edict of Nantes, signed in April 1598 by King Henry IV of France, granted the Calvinist Protestants of France (also known as Huguenots) substantial rights in the nation, which was still considered essentially Catholic at the time. In the edict, Henry aimed primarily to promote civil unity. In offering general freedom of conscience to individuals, the edict offered many specific concessions to the Protestants, such as amnesty and the reinstatement of their civil rights, including the right to work in any field or for the state and to bring grievances directly to the king. It marked the end of the religious wars that had afflicted France during the second half of the 16th century.  
> The later Edict of Fontainebleau, which revoked the Edict of Nantes in October 1685, was promulgated by Louis XIV. All Protestant ministers were given two weeks to leave the country unless they converted to Catholicism and all other Protestants were prohibited from leaving the country. In spite of the prohibition, the persecution including many examples of torture caused as many as 400,000 to flee France at risk of their lives. This exodus deprived France of many of its most skilled and industrious individuals, some of whom thenceforward aided France's rivals in the Netherlands and in England. The revocation of the Edict of Nantes also further damaged the perception of Louis XIV abroad, making the Protestant nations bordering France even more hostile to his regime. 
> 
> The Remnant is a fictional group created for the purposes of this story.


	4. Chapter 4

_To our most Sovereign King -_

_By this time, Your Majesty must have realized that the Duc d’Orleans is no longer present at Versailles. Monsieur is safe and unharmed for the moment, but to ensure that he remains so, We make this request: Reinstate the Edict of Nantes, or enact a new edict that will allow those observers of the Protestant faith to worship without social or economic penalty as their conscience leads them, provided they pay proper and reasonable homage to Your Majesty. We require no special treatment; We only wish to follow our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ without persecution from either Rome or the Crown. Good and loyal citizens have been harmed by Your Majesty’s decisions on this matter. Families have been torn apart. We respectfully encourage Your Majesty to amend the current law to ensure that Your own Most Noble Family is not torn apart in similar fashion._

_We recognize that enacting such an edict takes planning. Therefore, we will allow Your Majesty 72 hours from midnight tonight to draft, publish, and enact the new law. After this time, if there is no action on Your Majesty’s part, We cannot promise that Monsieur will remain in the same condition he currently enjoys._

_Accompanying this note, you will find a small token: evidence that Monsieur is indeed in our company. More tokens will be forthcoming, should they be required._

_We remain Your Loyal Subjects -_

_THE REMNANT_

Louis trembled as he read the note for what was probably the hundredth time. 

“Why have you not told me of this… 'Remnant' before?” Louis demanded angrily of the Paris police inspector, Monsieur de la Reynie, who quaked before him.

“We had only heard rumors of them, Your Majesty. That they are dissidents who were helping Protestants escape the country.”

“Which happens to be against the law, sir!”

“Yes, Majesty, I know. And we were investigating them quietly. But we had no reason to think they would escalate their actions against the Crown to this level. Their motives have been purely… uh, philanthropic… up until now.”

“Well, Inspector, thanks to your negligence this ‘philanthropy’ has invaded the very walls of Versailles and taken my only brother hostage. How very altruistic of them! If you knew about them, the very least you could have done is told me of their existence! You could have damn well done more to root them out.” De la Reynie acquiesced the point. He knew there was no excuse that the King would accept, and given the circumstances, he would be happy to leave with his head still intact. So instead he tried to reassure the King.

“These people clearly only want your attention, Your Majesty. You must not let them know they have succeeded in-”

“They have my attention now! And they shall burn for it!” Louis erupted, red-faced. “These _people,_ this 'Remnant,' who have the audacity to address themselves collectively with a proper 'We,' have laid hands on _my_ flesh and blood. And now they demand that _I_ , Louis Dieudonné, change the laws that _I_ established, with God’s authority, in order to secure Philippe’s release. How dare they. How fucking dare they!” he raged. “God damn them all!”

“Ahem,” Bontemps cleared his throat from his position by the door. “Forgive me, Your Majesty… the Duchesse…” With his eyes, he reminded the King of the decorum expected by his subjects in times of crisis. 

Louis remembered then that he was with his sister-in-law and his brother’s lover in the Orleans apartments, and they were witnessing his loss of control. He felt abashed at his behavior in the presence of the Princess Palatine, who was already terribly shaken over what had befallen her husband. She was behaving admirably, under the circumstances, but had come near to fainting earlier from the strain. She was sitting on the chaise, pale and worrying at her bottom lip. If she had been offended by his outburst, she gave no hint of it. 

Holding Liselotte’s hand with a desperate grip but looking no better than she did, was the Chevalier de Lorraine. While he had not fainted (at least to the King’s knowledge), he appeared ashen. Louis couldn’t help but pity the man. He had seen the note that Philippe had assumed was from the Chevalier, which had set all of this in motion. He had wanted to accuse the Chevalier, or at least blame him - of course, if Philippe thought the Chevalier summoned him he would go, even if it led him right into a trap. But he couldn’t do it. In his heart of hearts, Louis did not believe the Chevalier had anything to do with his brother’s abduction. He had had many reasons over the years to doubt the Chevalier’s loyalty to the Crown, but he knew he could never doubt his heart’s loyalty to Philippe. If Liselotte was upset, then Louis knew the Chevalier was devastated. 

_How they both love him,_ Louis thought to himself, almost jealously. 

“You will pardon me, dear Sister, for forgetting my language and my manners in the presence of a lady.” It was more of a statement than an actual apology, but that the King would even bend that much was miraculous in itself. Louis decided to extend his gallantry even further. “Chevalier, you will likewise pardon me. I do not wish to cause more grief to you both during this time.”

He composed himself and turned his attention back to Monsieur de la Reynie. “What is your plan, Monsieur? What information do you need in order to bring my brother home?”

“We must start by questioning all the servants of the household, Your Majesty. Anyone who has had access to these rooms or could have seen something amiss.” 

“Do so immediately. Use whatever methods you must, and report your findings to me. I also want to know of the day's comings and goings of everyone at Versailles. Where did they go, when did they return, and what was their errand.” Louis rubbed his head as it began to ache. He continued. “But I do not want those you question to speak of this to anyone. The more people who know about this, the greater the chance it could bring more risk to my brother. I want Philippe found as soon as possible, and I want him safe.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“You will start tonight. I want no time wasted. The clock begins ticking at midnight, so I want to take full advantage of these extra hours. Go!” Louis dismissed the inspector brusquely. The man scurried out the door, sweating over the task he had been given and wondering how in the hell he would be able to make sure the King’s brother did not wind up dead. He was fairly certain if he failed, his own life would be forfeit. He left behind the four others in the room mired in a tense silence: the King, his valet, the Duchesse, and the Chevalier. 

They all avoided looking at each other directly. It felt as though an eternity passed before the Chevalier finally dared to break the silence. “What will you do, Your Majesty?” he asked hesitantly. He feared the answer.

The King sighed heavily. “I don’t know.”

“They only want their rights restored,” Liselotte ventured. As a Protestant who had converted in order to marry Philippe, she knew she was treading on sensitive ground. “Is there no way that could be done somehow? Some minor concession-?”

“It’s not as simple as changing a law, Liselotte,” Louis snapped. “You know very well it's more complicated than that. If these people can dictate my decisions by threatening members of my household, no one in this family will ever be safe again. I cannot show that sort of weakness - not to the people of France, and not to the other sovereigns that surround us, be they Protestant or Catholic.” He closed his eyes as he remembered with frustration, “And Spain’s ambassadors will be here in two days time…”

“Your mind is made up, then,” Liselotte said flatly. Louis felt himself shrink beneath her judgmental gaze. Bontemps nearly jumped to his defense, but the King spoke before he could chastise the Duchesse d’Orleans. 

“No, it is not,” he insisted, his tone solemn. He had to at least appear to be fully in control and unbothered. “Not remotely. The position I am in is an impossible one. No matter what I choose, there will be consequences to live with afterwards. I must see what evidence can be obtained by Inspector de la Reynie. It may be that this Remnant group has made a miscalculation somewhere, or not all their members are entirely devoted to their cause. In the meantime, I will pray for guidance and wisdom. And I suggest tonight that we all pray for Philippe’s well-being and deliverance.”

Louis came forward and took Liselotte’s hand, giving it a formal kiss. “Madame, may I suggest you retire for the evening. I will keep you updated on any information I receive. Chevalier, I thank you for your attention to Madame at this time. Please stay close to her; make certain that if she requires anything, you send word to me at once.” Louis turned to leave, acting as dignified as possible. “I bid you good evening. I pray that you are able to rest, and that things will be improved come morning.” 

He quickly exited the Orleans apartments, not waiting to see if either the Chevalier or Liselotte bowed in reverence to him, or if they bid him goodnight in return. Bontemps followed quickly behind him, but Louis stopped and said, “Leave me. I must pray.” 

* * *

Louis made it, not to his chapel, but back to his bedroom, where his wife awaited him. Madame de Maintenon sat upon his bed in her shift, her hair curling over one shoulder. Any other time, he would have found her irresistible, but tonight he barely even saw her. “Husband, you are troubled,” she murmured, looking at his exhausted face. 

“‘Troubled’ doesn’t begin to cover it,” Louis said, his voice cracking. 

“Please, dearest. Unburden yourself and I will do anything I can to ease your pain.”

Louis could bear it no longer. “The King” disappeared, and he finally allowed himself to weep. He sank onto his bed, his tears flowing freely, and laid his pounding head in Maintenon’s lap. “They’ve taken my brother.” Brokenly, the whole sordid mess came pouring out, including what the kidnappers had demanded of him. Even as he recounted it, he knew that if the monarchy was to survive, he would not be able to give in to them. And it meant Philippe would never come home. _I wish I was not a King,_ he thought. There were very few times in his life that he ever let such a line of thinking enter his mind, but this was one such time. _If I was not a King, I could get my brother back. No… if I was not a King, they would never have taken him in the first place._

As he spoke, Maintenon could feel him cementing his decision. Knowing what it cost him, she attempted to soothe Louis. “God has sent this trial to show the danger of heresy. Letting the heretics have their way is a direct affront to you, and therefore, offensive to God. Remember, you are King. God’s Chosen.”

Louis whispered, “But... my brother…” _The only one who has always had my back._ He thought about the night after Philippe had first returned from war, some years ago. The war had damaged him more than he was willing to acknowledge, until finally it had overwhelmed him. Louis' heart had broken to see his beautiful brother finally crumble in the garden, his tears shimmering in the light of hundreds of candles as the memories of bloodshed and death haunted him. _The story he told me of the soldier who carried his dead brother home… he didn’t know if I would do the same for him. I feel like it’s finally being asked of me now and I can’t… I cannot bring him home…_ “I don’t know how I’ll be able to do this.”

Maintenon held him in her arms, stroking his hair. “We shall pray. We shall pray without ceasing. If God wills it, He will send deliverance and your brother will be saved. If it is not God’s will, then he will be given the crown of martyrdom and be welcomed into Heaven’s glory. His sacrifice for you and for God’s true Church will bring him into the realm of the saints.”

Louis closed his eyes and continued to weep. Her words gave him no comfort. There could be no sleep for him tonight.

* * *

Liselotte leaned against the Chevalier as they gazed at the fire from their positions on the chaise. It was a tableau that had been recreated multiple times while Philippe had been away at war, and even after he had returned and isolated himself. “Philippe is strong,” she murmured. “We have to cling to that. He’s strong, and he will return to us. He always does.”

“He is strong,” the Chevalier softly agreed. It was true. Philippe was so strong, so determined and brave. _But even the strongest tree can be felled by an axe._

“But…?” She squeezed his hand. “You’re more worried than you care to let on. Do you think they’ve hurt him?” Liselotte whispered. 

“They said he was unharmed. Safe.” He couldn’t bear to voice his thoughts, so desperately did he need to cling to the hope that Liselotte offered. And he didn’t want to make her more distressed than she already was.

“Do we believe what traitors say?” Liselotte sighed. “You are thinking it - and you’re not sparing my feelings by holding it back. In fact, it’s a little insulting. I’m not a delicate flower, you know. You don’t need to pretend for my sake. I’d prefer your honest opinion right now.” 

The Chevalier hesitated a moment to process what she said, and noticed she had a wobbly, sad smile that meant to encourage him. He sighed and returned the smile as best he could. “You know me too well, dear girl.” He pressed a chaste kiss upon her forehead. “And we both know Philippe. He would not have willingly gone with these people without a fight. It’s not unreasonable to think he had to be subdued or threatened somehow. I just don’t know the extent of it, which is where my foolish imagination is running amok.”

Liselotte nodded into his shoulder. “I understand. I won’t tell you not to think of it, because I know it would be impossible. Not to mention hypocritical. But we have to have faith.”

“At least when he was at war, I knew he was not alone. That made it easier somehow - if I could not be with him, to take care of him, at least I knew there were loyal fighting men around him who would come to his defense, if needed. What friend does he have now? How are these people treating him?” The Chevalier gave a shuddering sigh and quickly swiped his eyes, where hot tears of frustration and fear threatened to erupt. “If I could find him myself…” _What? What would I do? I would destroy the bastards who took him. What I did to Thomas Beaumont would be as a day at the spa compared to my vengeance on these devils. I would crush them so completely not even God Himself would be able to recognize them! Of course, Philippe would be able to get some hits in for himself - I’m sure being kidnapped has struck a serious blow to his pride…_ “What I wouldn’t give for some tips from Fabien Marchal on how to effectively torture people.” 

Only a moment after he spoke, he stiffened. Liselotte, feeling the change in his body, lifted her head and looked at him in surprise. “What is it?” she asked worriedly.

The Chevalier’s eyes were wide and gleamed with sudden inspiration. “ _Fabien Marchal,”_ he murmured. 

Confused, Liselotte tried to follow his meaning. “Marchal? He’s in prison. Isn’t he?” 

The Chevalier stood, animatedly. “Not for much longer. I must speak to the King at once.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel Nicolas de la Reynie was the first Lieutenant General of the Paris police, an office which he held from March 1667 to January 1697. His views on law enforcement were advanced, and form the basis for modern police forces. De la Reynie appears here in the much the same role Fabien Marchal played in the series, so in this world he is Marchal's replacement. His personality is fictional.


	5. Chapter 5

There was no way to measure time in the wine cellar. Without being able to see outside, Philippe could not estimate the hour based on the level of sunlight. His back and shoulders ached from remaining in the same position for so long; there was nothing he desired so much at this moment than to stretch. Well, that and a sip of water - the gag had dried his mouth to the point where he was terribly thirsty. The best he could do was flex his hands every so often so that the rope didn’t cut off his circulation. So far, so good - he could still feel his fingers, though he fretted that he seemed to have lost his ring. 

Aside from these small movements, he had quickly tired of struggling. For the time being, he gave the impression of submission. Physically, he had no other choice - he could find no escape from his restraints. Mentally, though, he was calculating, observing, and waiting. He knew he would need a plan and when the right moment came, he would need all his strength and faculties intact to seize it. 

One would think he would have been better prepared for such a situation. Philippe thought back to the few times when he and the Chevalier had dabbled with consensual bondage in the bedroom. Those indulgences had only been for fun and foreplay, to heighten the excitement of passion and to surrender one’s control over to the other. Their restraints had been silken scarves, intended for soft sensuality, rather than the coarse and utilitarian rope that was so unforgivingly tied around him now. In fact, during the odd occasion when the Chevalier would “tie him up,” the bonds could very easily be slipped out of - it was a conscious decision on Philippe’s part not to do so. It was a game. 

And being gagged was never part of their process, for there were other, much better ways to occupy one’s mouth. 

_Don’t start thinking that way now,_ Philippe chided himself, interrupting his thoughts before they went too far. _There’s a time and place for that, and this is most definitely not it. It will not do me any good if I get aroused in this state. This is no game._

The youth, Mathieu, who had been given the task of guarding him, couldn’t have been more than 20. Philippe knew he had a pistol, but it was tucked into his waistcoat. Mathieu had sat down on the pallet where Philippe had first awakened and occupied himself scribbling something with a crude pencil on a loose sheet of parchment paper. Philippe was not interested enough to wonder if it was a draft of a ransom note for Louis, or a makeshift diary entry, or even a note to a sweetheart. The lad looked up at him every so often, but continued his pencil scratching for what must have been hours. Philippe could safely say that, while he had never given it much thought, he’d had no idea that being held captive would be so dull. 

His guard stood now, cracked his own back with a grunt (which Philippe observed enviously), and then peered his head out the cellar door. “Hey, Renard!” he called into the hall. A few seconds later, Renard appeared, a hulking figure in the doorway. “What?” he barked.

The boy said, “I have to piss. Keep an eye on Monsieur for a few minutes, would you?” 

Renard eyed the prisoner. “What am I supposed to do with him?” _Nothing at all, please,_ Philippe thought harshly, recalling how rough this one had been with him earlier. _I’m fine, you’re fine, let’s just leave each other alone and be fine._

“He’s been no trouble. Just watch him and make sure he doesn’t try anything. Enjoy the stimulating conversation.” Mathieu smirked at his own joke, and as he slipped out the door he winked at Philippe with an amiable grin, as if they were old friends. Philippe rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. _I would have been happy to converse, if you’d have taken this damn thing out of my mouth for five minutes to offer me some water. But I refuse to humiliate myself any further by trying to talk through it. Don’t wink at me, you stupid child. You aren’t funny._

Renard came closer to his chair and studied him, in a way that slowly made Philippe uncomfortable. “So... brother of the King,” the man murmured, smiling a secret, lurid smile. He bowed mockingly. “ _Monsieur._ Can’t bite me now with that gag in your mouth, can you? _”_ He reached out and took hold of Philippe’s chin, lifting his face up to view him better. Philippe refused to make eye contact. “I do prefer you this way. Pretty as a girl, aren’t you? And I hear rumors that sometimes you play at being a girl, too - wearing gowns and rouge and such. Don’t you look fetching like this… acting so defiant, but really so helpless. Think of all the things I could do to you right now and you wouldn’t be able to fight back.” Suddenly, his hand was around Philippe’s neck, not tight enough to completely cut off his air, but aggressive enough to cause the prince to let out a muffled gasp of alarm. 

“Look at me when I speak to you!” Renard growled. “You don’t get to put on airs now. I know all about you and your kind. Flagrantly practicing your deviances at court, and the king turns a blind eye to your sin. Would he do the same for mine, I wonder? I am no Catholic, after all. Maybe it would depend on the sin.” A knife appeared in Philippe’s line of sight. He felt his breathing hitch, and his whole body signaled danger. He wanted to get away from this man. Instinctively his hands flexed and some futile, covert attempts were made to loosen the bonds around his wrists. He stilled, breathing shallowly, as the knife came closer to his face. With a lightness that made his blood turn to ice, it gently traced where his lips had been parted by the gag. 

“What if I free your pretty mouth long enough for my cock to fill it? Would you like that?” _No! I most certainly would not like that._ Philippe broke into a cold sweat. _If he tries, I’ll bite him again. I swear to God, I’ll bite his prick clean off!_ He closed his eyes against the sight of this filthy man leering at him. But then Renard pressed his thumb against his windpipe, and his eyes snapped open again. “I’m still speaking, so you would do well to listen!” Renard snarled. 

He let the knife hover downward slowly, softly tracing the pulse in the prince’s white neck, then letting the point drag against the captive’s chest. Philippe could feel the sharpness grazing his skin through his shirt. Renard continued to assess him. “Then again, you wear that gag so well, it would be a shame to remove it. Maybe I should focus my attention elsewhere.” The knife came to a stop at his breeches. “This position you’re currently in is inconvenient - I would have to find a creative way to your ass. If I had the time… and maybe a little more rope…I’m still of the opinion that you could use more. Wouldn’t that be fun? We could see how flexible you really are.” Renard let the knife’s point press, ever so slightly, into the fabric of Philippe’s breeches. It was enough to make him flinch and squeak a little bit. Renard grinned. “Oh, that was nice. Yes, when I get the time, we will have to have more of _that._ ” He pressed the knife just the slightest bit more, lower down, and Philippe flinched again. 

At that point, Philippe forgot his resolution to stay silent. This brute was going out of his way to remind him in great humiliating detail how vulnerable he was to any possible violation of his person, while also physically threatening him with just such a violation. It scared him. Without thinking, he tried to say “Stop it,” or something to that effect, but of course, it came out as inarticulate mumbling. Renard snickered. “What was that? Sorry, but you weren’t very clear. I didn’t hear a ‘no,’ did I? Didn’t sound like it - you really shouldn’t talk with your mouth full.” He straightened up and resheathed the knife, then took a handful of Philippe’s hair and pulled it slowly, trapping his head so that he was forced to look up at the face of his tormentor. “I didn’t think to find you so pretty. I’ve had a few whores this way - bound and gagged and helpless. I tie them up myself. They don’t often like it, but that isn’t the point, is it? I love the way they struggle and moan as I fuck them. But somehow, this feels much more exciting. Not sure if it’s because you’re a man or because you're a royal.” 

As he held onto Philippe’s hair with one hand, he dug the fingers of the other into the most sensitive area of Philippe’s groin. Philippe grunted in pain but also in revulsion. He shook his head despite the sharp pull at his scalp and made insistent sounds of refusal. This seemed to make Renard happy indeed. “I don’t have enough time to satisfy my… curiosity… right now. Perhaps later on, I’ll offer to let Mathieu get some sleep, and we can continue this in greater detail. I want to hear that sweet little noise again, but we don’t want to disturb anyone.” Renard leaned in close and whispered, “I’ll make you squeal and squirm just for me.”

“What are you doing?”

Mathieu had returned with a flask in hand and was now standing at the door, watching in concern and confusion. Philippe couldn’t have been happier to see the boy. 

Renard didn’t seem nearly so pleased. Nevertheless, he chuckled and released Philippe’s hair. “His Highness was getting a bit uppity. I was just reminding him of his position.”

“That’s not what it looked like. Anyway, you can go now.” Mathieu gestured for him to leave, frowning. Philippe looked straight ahead, endeavoring to slow his breathing and keep panic from overwhelming him. If Renard refused to leave, would Mathieu try to force him? If a physical confrontation were to happen, Philippe considered himself doomed, for that gangly youth was no match for this disgusting thug. Or worse, would Mathieu decide it wasn’t worth it to oppose him, and just let Renard do whatever he wanted? 

Still smirking, Renard leaned down and whispered, “Mark my words, Monsieur: before your ordeal is over, I will have your mouth and your ass to my satisfaction.” Then, with sudden speed that took both Mathieu and Philippe by surprise, he backhanded Philippe’s face. The prince gasped at the force of the blow. Had he not been tied to the chair, he would have gone flying to the floor.

“Renard! Stop it!” Mathieu shouted angrily, and quickly put himself between Renard and the captive. “There was no reason for that!”

“That was for biting me earlier. Royal son of a bitch needs to remember who’s in charge now.”

“And that is not you! It’s Etienne, and you heard him: no one is to touch Monsieur.” Mathieu put a hand on his pistol. “Go back upstairs. Now.” 

Renard put his hands up in mocking surrender. “Alright, calm down, Rembrandt. Don’t get a nosebleed. I’m going.” He headed for the door, snickering, but paused to look back at Philippe one last time and lick his lips. Then he slammed the door, and Philippe exhaled a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. 

As he shuddered, he saw Mathieu reach for his face. Involuntarily, he pulled his head back in alarm.

“No, no,” Mathieu reassured him, gently. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. I won’t even touch you if you don’t want me to. I just want to get a look at where he hit you.” After a brief moment’s hesitation, Philippe nodded his assent. Mathieu, keeping his hands to himself, leaned in to examine the red mark forming on the prince’s cheek. “I think he caught you with his fingernail, just there. It’s a tiny scratch, but it did break the skin a little bit.” 

He retrieved the flask that he had tossed on the table when he ran in to defend Philippe. Opening it, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and poured liquid into it. “It’s just water,” he explained, as he held it out for Philippe to see. Philippe realized the boy wanted permission to help him. His cheek was still stinging, and knowing that he could either sit there and swell up or be tended to made him accept the offer. He figured the injury had to be minor, but he was desperate for some form of human kindness, to feel that maybe he had an ally against that awful creature beyond the door who threatened him. 

“Forgive me,” Philippe heard Mathieu say softly. The prince studied the boy as he gently held the damp cloth to his face, cooling the angry flame that Renard’s hand had left. “I’m so sorry I left you with him,” he said, regretfully. “I will not do so again. I didn’t think… I never dreamed he would act like that with you. He had no business putting his hands on you.”

Philippe thought, as long as his young captor was showing consideration for his comfort, maybe he could convince the boy to help him further. He made a few pathetic sounds, indicating he wanted Mathieu to ungag him. Mathieu was astute enough to understand this, but shook his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t take it off yet. I know it’s uncomfortable, but it’s not up to me. Etienne makes that decision. He’ll be back very soon. When he returns and learns you’ve been cooperative, I’m sure he’ll allow it. Just endure for a little while longer.” He paused in his ministrations to rewet the handkerchief, and resumed his efforts to control the swelling mark on Philippe’s face. 

“Don’t worry about him,” he continued, trying to be reassuring. “Renard, I mean. Etienne won’t let anything happen to you. I know you have no reason to trust me - I mean, we did kidnap you. But I promise, no one wants you hurt. I’ll tell Etienne that Renard was bothering you, and he’ll be reprimanded. He won’t be allowed near you again. I swear on my life.”

Philippe, while disappointed that Mathieu was apparently a stickler for rules, knew that he had garnered some sympathy. Depending on how long he was here, he could potentially gain more, then make Mathieu trust him, and then perhaps… just perhaps… this boy could be his salvation.


	6. Chapter 6

Though Philippe could not have known the time, it was nearly 3 AM when he heard someone approach the cellar door. The encounter with Renard had put him on edge for hours, but by now he was feeling drained. Despite his discomfort, he found himself dozing every so often, only to snap awake from a feeling of urgency or dread. Mathieu had put aside his scribbling since Renard had made his threats, and had been vigilantly watching the door, pacing around the room, and occasionally reapplying a cool, wet cloth to Philippe’s now-bruised cheek in a vain attempt to undo the damage Renard had inflicted.

They both watched the door as they heard the advancing steps. Philippe noticed Mathieu’s hand hovering close to the pistol at his waist. The door opened and Etienne walked in. 

Mathieu visibly relaxed, and let his hand drop to his side, as he allowed the older man to assume command. In deference to Philippe’s rank, Etienne politely greeted him first, though without expecting a reply that the prince could not give. “Good evening, Your Highness. Mathieu,” he acknowledged the boy, tossing him a small parcel. “Though I suppose it really is more properly considered morning at this hour.” He suddenly noticed Philippe’s face. His expression hardened upon seeing the discolored mark blooming on the captive’s skin. “What happened here?”

Mathieu looked apologetic. “Renard,” he said simply. Philippe saw Etienne narrow his eyes. 

“I see.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have allowed it to happen.” Philippe was surprised to hear so much guilt in the boy’s voice. _What is_ **_he_ ** _apologizing for? If it wasn’t for this child, that brute would have assaulted me then and there!_

Etienne turned to look at the youth and addressed him sharply. “That’s right; you shouldn’t have. My instructions were crystal clear that he was not to be touched. I will attend to this matter with Renard right now. You can remove Monsieur’s gag and let him have some water and some bread. I will be back shortly.” Etienne turned and walked quickly from the room, back upstairs to confront his cohort. 

Mathieu quickly untied the gag and as soon as he pulled it away, Philippe spat out the handkerchief, now soaked with his saliva. He coughed and stretched his jaw, incredibly relieved to finally have his mouth free after so many hours. “Ugh, thank God. That has been very unpleasant,” he groaned with disgust.

“Have a sip of water; I know you must be thirsty,” Mathieu coaxed, and held up his flask to Philippe’s mouth. The prince took several small sips. Despite the realization that he would apparently remain bound while receiving a partial break, he relished the feeling of cool water in his parched throat. _Nothing has ever tasted so lovely._

“Thank you,” he said, sincerely. Mathieu gave a shy smile as he closed the flask, and nodded in response. “I don’t just mean for the water,” Philippe continued. He wanted to keep the young man’s interest and start a conversation. He hoped that by showing his appreciation, he might gain leverage to prick Mathieu’s conscience. “I have not been able to properly thank you for your protection until now.”

“Oh, Your Highness, please. That isn’t necessary,” Mathieu demurred, surprised and a little uncomfortable. 

“Yes, it is. You defended me and have shown me kindness and concern. You deserve my thanks, and you have it.”

The sound of raised voices could suddenly be heard upstairs. Renard and Etienne were arguing. Loudly. Mathieu went to close the cellar door so that the sound was muted. “There, you see? He’s taking care of it, just like I knew he would. You don’t have to worry,” he said quickly, clearly anxious to turn the prince’s attention away from the conflict within their ranks. “Are you hungry at all?”

“I could eat something,” Philippe acknowledged, deciding to focus on the young man in front of him rather than whatever was unfolding upstairs. He had no control over anything outside this room; he could only try to control what occurred in this space. That is where he needed to concentrate. And the offer of food would help in that matter. Aside from a single strawberry by the Grand Canal before passing out, he had eaten nothing but an early breakfast, which was ages ago by this point. He was famished. Mathieu opened the parcel that Etienne had given him, revealing a loaf of bread. He tore off a piece and, to Philippe’s embarrassment, fed it to him.

As he chewed (the loaf was on the other end of “fresh”), he tried to shrug off the awkwardness of being so helpless. The Chevalier had fed him before, having him nibble morsels from his fingers or dropping little sweets into his waiting mouth. Usually, though, this was a prelude to a different type of hunger, and soon Philippe’s mouth would be occupied with the handsome blonde’s kisses. Which would then lead to other feasting...

 _NOT THE TIME, PHILIPPE! What’s the matter with me? While he will be delighted to learn that he occupied my thoughts so completely during all of this, if I want to see the Chevalier again, then I must focus on getting out of here._ “What have you been writing?” he found himself asking his young guard, hoping to keep the conversation going as well as to distract himself. Any piece of information could be useful to him. 

“What?” Mathieu asked, confused.

“You spent hours scribbling over there,” Philippe explained, indicating the pallet where Mathieu had sat with his parchment and pencil. “I was curious, but I obviously couldn't ask you before now. What were you writing?”

“It isn’t writing…" Mathieu admitted. "I’ve been sketching.” 

“Sketching?” This was an interesting revelation. “Is that why Renard called you Rembrandt earlier? I had not thought of it until just now. You are an artist, then?”

Mathieu’s ears began to pinken as he grew flustered under Philippe’s scrutiny. “Well, not really. I was learning to be. I had won a place at the Académie at the start of the year, but I had to stop when… I was just practicing.”

“You attended the Académie Royale? Then this is no mere hobby.” Philippe was intrigued. Even better, this was a topic on which he could converse freely. He loved art and had recently started amassing a small collection of his own. This might be the key to winning the boy over. “May I see it?”

“What?” Mathieu squeaked, looking stricken.

“May I see what you’ve sketched?” Philippe repeated.

“I… uh, well… I don’t think you’d like it, Your Highness.”

“Why not? Is it scandalous? If you’re drawing nude figures over there, I can promise you I’m not so easily shocked.”

“N-no, it’s nothing like that,” Mathieu stammered. “I have just been drawing what I see. Life drawing.”

It took Philippe a moment to puzzle out what he meant. “Oh. You mean… you've drawn me?”

“Yes, Your Highness. I’m sorry, Your Highness.” Mathieu dropped his head in embarrassment. 

“Hmm. Well, I suppose now you _have_ to show me. I’ve sat for plenty of portraits before and I am very particular about how I’m represented. Go on, then.”

“Uh… I mean…”

“Come on, snap to it. You’ll have to bring it to me, since I don’t imagine you’re going to untie me.” _Worth a shot,_ Philippe thought.

“Yes, Your Highness.” Mathieu jumped to obey the royal order. But as he retrieved the piece of old parchment, he babbled excuses. “It’s just a rough sketch, sir. Very rough and not with real artist’s materials, and of course, no color. As I said, it’s practice… to keep the technique in the fingers.” He hesitantly revealed the drawing to Philippe's eyes, and held his breath waiting for criticism. 

Philippe studied the drawing silently for a moment. Mathieu had done a true-to-life sketch… a very detailed rendering of the Duc d’Orleans sitting captive in his chair. 

“It’s… very good,” Philippe finally pronounced.

“It is?” Mathieu exhaled in disbelief.

“I mean, I am not wild about the pose, you understand. Usually, I am depicted in more noble positions - wearing armor or court dress. I don’t normally sit for artists tied up this way, you know. But that quibble has more to do with my current situation than the drawing itself. You have talent. And for just a ‘sketch,’ as you call it… yes, it is quite good.” 

And the odd part was that Philippe was not lying. The sketch was of very high quality, as good a depiction as any royal portrait done in oils by the likes of Pierre Mignard or Jean Nocret. But the style was not the stiff and regal “classical” style traditionally encouraged by the Académie; this was more raw. There was energy of movement on the page, a strange quality to see in a figure that was so literally confined to one position. There was tension visible in the muscles as they fought against their constraints. Mathieu had paid particular attention to the texture and pattern of the rope bonds around the body, the folds of the fabric of his shirt, and the tangles of his hair. With that crude pencil, the boy had effectively rendered what the subject felt being trapped in that chair, unable to speak or move. 

And yet, he had managed to make Philippe beautiful as well. Hair tousled as if just rising from bed. Lips full and pouting, held separate and open by cloth. Shirt undone at the neck and pulled askew by the tautness of the ropes, exposing his collarbone and the length of his throat. Eyes that had defiance and depth, somehow making him appear both dominant and submissive simultaneously. _Is that what I have looked like this whole time? Either the boy must be feeling generous, or I am projecting far too much on this drawing._

“I’d be interested to see what you could do with paints. And with your subject not tied up and gagged, of course,” Philippe added, wryly. “But you have impressed me with what you refer to as ‘practice.’”

“Th-thank you, Your Highness. I don’t know what to say.” 

“I think you should say goodnight.” Etienne’s voice startled them both. He stood at the door to the cellar watching them, and Philippe realized he had not noticed when the commotion upstairs had died down. He wondered how long Etienne had been observing them. 

Etienne came forward now and took the drawing from Mathieu’s hands. “Showing your doodles to our guest?” Mathieu’s face fell a bit. 

Philippe saw the light in the lad's eyes dim with disappointment and suddenly felt the need to jump in. “I asked to see it. I find it very skillfully done.”

Etienne looked at Mathieu with an unreadable expression while answering Philippe's comment. “Yes, our little Rembrandt has a good eye. You'll forgive a pun, but he has 'captured' you to perfection." He chuckled, but it was without humor or warmth. "In fact, I think this masterpiece should be shared with others. I will send it along with our next note to His Majesty. I’m sure the King will appreciate a glimpse of his brother’s condition. It will ease his mind to have some evidence that Monsieur is alive and well, don’t you think?” Etienne’s gaze made Mathieu shrink, and the younger man mumbled a reply. Philippe was trying to decipher what was passing between his two captors, while also fretting about what his brother would do if he saw such an illustration. He truly didn't know if Etienne really planned to send Louis the picture, or if it was a only mocking bluff intended for Mathieu's embarrassment.

Etienne glanced at Philippe. “Monsieur, have you eaten enough for now?” Philippe nodded in answer, though the truth was he could have managed a few more bites, stale bread or not. Etienne turned back to his comrade. “Well then, Mathieu. You have my leave to go and get some sleep. I will watch our guest while you take a well-earned break.”

Mathieu fumbled for words. “Etienne, I-”

“What?”

“I… Don’t let Renard…”

“You have nothing to fear on that front,” Etienne interrupted, dismissing the boy with a wave of his hand. “No one shall harm your new friend. Now go to bed.”

Mathieu looked like he wanted to say something else, but the energy left him. “Goodnight, brother,” he murmured. He then bowed somewhat haltingly as he politely took his leave of Philippe. “Your Highness.” He shuffled out the door, looking like a reprimanded child. It occurred to Philippe that Mathieu had not eaten anything in their time together, not even a bite from that loaf of bread. He couldn't be certain, not knowing what the situation was upstairs, but it felt as if Etienne had just sent Mathieu to bed without supper. 

Once the cellar door closed behind him, he let his surprise show. “You two are brothers?” He was having trouble reconciling this, for Etienne had to be nearly twenty years older than Mathieu, and there was no visible resemblance.

“Stepbrothers, actually,” Etienne clarified. “My mother passed when I was fifteen. My father spent three years as a widower, then met a much younger lady and married her. Mathieu was born shortly afterward. I’ve practically raised him myself.”

“What happened to your father and stepmother?” Philippe pressed, curious. _Why did Mathieu leave the Académie? Why does Etienne have such a hold over him? If these two are brothers, how does Renard fit into this group?_ He wondered how many questions he could get answered. 

It turned out the answer was none, for Etienne shook his head. “No, Monsieur. You forget who you’re talking to. I’m not a child like Mathieu. I know how to hold my tongue and keep my cards close.” He walked away from Philippe and set the drawing down carefully on the little table. “I would warn you, Your Highness,” Etienne said flatly, his voice more serious than Philippe had ever heard. “I know what you hope to accomplish with Mathieu. He is not your friend or your pet. He will not be the one to save you. I suggest you stop attempting to manipulate him.”

“I was just trying to be appreciative. He did chase off that ruffian that you left here to threaten me. I am grateful that he protected me.”

“Then I would advise you to appreciate his presence and leave it at that. I could always remove him from guarding you and replace him with Renard. I don’t think you would appreciate _him_ nearly so much.” 

Philippe’s eyes widened in alarm. “I do not want to be in the same room as that man! He is not to be trusted.” 

“Oh, I would not allow him to violate you,” Etienne smiled at him, but it was not the same condescending smirk he had used up to this point. This one made Philippe shudder. “I am committed to that promise. But maybe I would look the other way as he _bends_ my rule of putting his hands on you. Maybe a little rough handling would make you realize that this is not a game to be played with courtier's tactics and tricks. Is that what you want to happen?”

Philippe glared at him. “No. I do not," he grumbled.

“Then you will hold your tongue in the presence of my stepbrother. Are we understood?”

“Yes.”

Etienne sighed, as if in relief. “Good.” He stood and approached Philippe, pulling a new, clean handkerchief from his pocket. “I’m glad you are able to listen to reason. Now open your mouth.”

It couldn't be time for this again already. “Please, don’t,” winced Philippe, shaking his head. He had promised himself he would not beg, but the thought of being gagged again so soon was dreadful. “It’s not necessary. I’ll be quiet.”

“That isn’t an option.”

“But maybe it _could_ be an option,” Philippe insisted. “Or… or maybe you could do a little less than before. Just tie it over my mouth without anything inside, or something. That’d be fine; I could tolerate that.” Philippe couldn’t believe he was trying to bargain over this, but he still had such an ache in his jaw and a foul taste on his tongue. But it was clear Etienne meant to punish him. 

“You know very well that would do nothing to keep you quiet.”

“But it doesn't really need to. I said I would be quiet.”

Etienne finally snapped. “Well, you’re not being quiet right now, and you have proven that you can’t be quiet where my stepbrother is concerned!" He had hit his limit, and Philippe's heart sank. "There won’t be any negotiating. You have shown me that I need to keep you gagged for the duration of your stay with us. There will be no more food nor water unless I am present to grant it to you, and then you will partake in silence. And the more you fight it, the worse I can make it for you. Think about that. Now, I’ll courteously ask you again: open your mouth. Please.”

Philippe grimaced, but he had no other choice. He reluctantly opened his mouth and Etienne stuffed the handkerchief inside - _God, it feels like it's larger than the last one_ , Philippe thought in revulsion - then pulled the strip of fabric back between Philippe’s teeth. While Etienne was somewhat gentler in the process than Renard had been, Philippe still couldn’t help but groan a bit as the gag was tightly knotted, making it impossible get off. His tongue pressing the cloth forward so he could bite down and hold it in place was all that was preventing him from choking. He was really growing to hate this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Académie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture (Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture) was founded in 1648 and located in Paris, France. It was the premier art institution of France during the latter part of the Ancien Régime, until it was abolished in 1793, during the French Revolution. It included most of the important painters and sculptors, maintained almost total control of teaching and exhibitions, and afforded its members preference in royal commissions.
> 
> Pierre Mignard and Jean Nocret are just two of the French artists that did portraits of Philippe.  
> Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn (1606-1669) was a Dutch draughtsman, painter, and printmaker. An innovative and prolific master in three media, he is generally considered one of the greatest visual artists in the history of art and the most important in Dutch art history. Though he never went abroad, his prints were circulated widely, including in France. His portraits of contemporaries and self-portraits are some of his greatest creative triumphs.
> 
> Philippe did collect art and formed the basis for the "Orleans Collection."
> 
> Nothing would give me more pleasure than to be able to recreate the sketch described in this chapter. However, I was not born under a drawing planet.


	7. Chapter 7

Dawn was breaking over Versailles, with just a trace of pink in the sky over the horizon. The Duc d’Orleans had been missing for an estimated 17 hours so far. The King, sleepless and irritable, waited in his audience chamber. The Chevalier de Lorraine stood silently next to him, his blue eyes rimmed red from exhaustion and emotion. Bontemps entered and announced, “Monsieur Fabien Marchal, Your Majesty.”

Flanked by two armed policemen, Fabien Marchal entered, shackled. The King made every effort to school his expression to cool detachment as he took in his former security chief’s pale and gaunt appearance and tattered clothes. Prison had been harsh on him, and it was hard not to be pained at the sight of his old friend’s frailty. _I did not anticipate this,_ Louis thought, hesitantly. _I don’t know if he will have the strength to help us, even if he is willing._

Remembering his strategy, the King mustered up his sternest tone. “Why is he shackled? I said he was to be allowed to walk freely. Remove those irons at once!” 

The officers quickly obeyed, though Fabien inwardly understood that the King had waited to give such an instruction so that he might hear it. The whole enterprise, from his sudden release, followed by his immediate escort to Versailles in the wee hours, felt like a bit of theatre intended entirely for his benefit. He wondered if he was finally to be sentenced, either to life or to death, but he didn’t understand why it was occurring so very early in the morning, nor why the Chevalier de Lorraine, of all people, was present.

When the handcuffs were removed, the officers were dismissed, leaving Fabien alone with the King, the Chevalier, and Bontemps silently standing by the doors. “Fabien,” Louis acknowledged quietly. Marchal bowed respectfully, his voice creaking, ”Your Majesty.” 

“Are you well?”

“I am as well as can be expected, Sire.” The unspoken reproach hung in the air: _I am as well as I could be after being tossed in prison and forgotten about for months on end._ “I hope Your Majesty is also well. It has been a long time. To what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?”

“I...” Louis began, then looked at the Chevalier. It was his idea, so he must be included. He gestured to the blonde man. “ _We_ asked you here for the sake of one that we dearly love, who is in desperate trouble. The Duc d’Orleans has been kidnapped.”

Fabien’s eyes widened. That was _not_ what he had expected to hear. “Are you certain, Sire?” he asked. He had great respect and admiration for Philippe, and would have almost even dared to call him a friend, before his fall from grace. But the idea of someone with the gall to abduct a member of the royal family was staggering. And the King’s brother, of all people! This was not like the Chevalier de Rohan attempting to kidnap the Dauphin, who had been but a defenseless child at the time of that conspiracy. Monsieur was a grown man, and a proven warrior of strength and skill - the whole of France knew this. He could easily take care of himself and hold his own in a fight - Fabien had witnessed it with his own eyes. To successfully capture someone as capable as the Duc d’Orleans must have taken planning and strategy, and likely some level of force, for he would not have gone quietly. 

“We are most certain,” Louis said, grimly. 

“How long has Monsieur been missing?”

“Since yesterday. We estimate that he was taken between half past eleven in the morning and noon. He was lured into a trap away from the palace walls. The Chevalier and the Princess Palatine found the coat he had been wearing shredded into pieces in his room, along with written demands. We searched the entire palace and the grounds, and found no trace of him. We even sent a squadron of soldiers to Saint-Cloud, to make sure he had not simply gone there without leaving word. He has done so in the past." The King sighed. “I wish that was the case this time.”

Louis took two pieces of parchment, the phony invitation from the Chevalier and the kidnappers’ message, from his pocket and placed them together on the table in the center of the room. “Here is the ransom note,” Louis continued, beckoning Fabien to take a closer look. “From an entity known as The Remnant. Well, maybe it cannot be properly called a ransom note since they are not asking for money. They are unhappy with the revocation of the Edict of Nantes and are demanding I change the laws in order to secure Philippe’s release.” Louis pushed the parchment toward Fabien, noting that the other man couldn’t help but be curious. He prayed that curiosity would be enough to convince him.

Fabien studied the message. “They are Protestants, then?” He thought back to the group of Protestants he had known. Ordinary men and women, driven to extremes out of desperation and outrage. Those people had disregarded his warnings and been cut down in the square when they attempted to assassinate the King. But it would seem the same feelings that drove them to such violence still existed among other citizens, and now they had targeted those the King loved most. 

“So they claim, though they are hardly behaving in what could be called a Christian manner.”

“Your brother thought he was meeting the Chevalier, so he would not have been accompanied by guards,” Fabien stated, eyeing the blonde man who winced in grief and pain at the reminder. “But this note is not from you, sir?”

“Of course not. In the first place, I have been organizing the fete in honor of the Spanish contingent for two weeks. I have not had time for any clandestine meetings in the middle of the day with all that needed to be done. In the second place, I do not write to Philippe.” The Chevalier’s voice began to rise, his emotion threatening to choke him. “I have not since my exile to Rome. I do not want any correspondence between us to fall into the wrong hands, and be used against him. We made that bargain ages ago, for the sake of his reputation. I am outraged that my name was used in this. I would never put Philippe in danger, and I would end anyone who did!”

“Lorraine, calm yourself!” The King commanded, though not angrily. The Chevalier was pale, and Louis worried that he would collapse from the strain if he continued in this manner. For the Chevalier’s benefit, Louis addressed Fabien. “The Chevalier is innocent of any wrongdoing. He is not a suspect in this matter.”

“I never meant to sound as though I was accusing him, Your Majesty. Forgive me, Chevalier. I know your feelings toward Monsieur, and I would not dare to suggest that you were involved in this plot. I remember well your actions toward the last man who threatened Monsieur’s life.” The Chevalier took a deep, shuddering breath as Fabien appeased him. He, too, remembered Thomas Beaumont, the traitorous devil who had left his beautiful Mignonette bleeding and insensible, and almost with a knife buried in his breast. He had never felt a second’s remorse for shooting that bastard. He nodded his pardon as his anger drained away, taking what little energy he had with it.

Fabien continued carefully. “I am grieved to hear this news about Monsieur; it is appalling that anyone would dare to lay hands on him. I assume Gabriel de la Reynie is investigating the case?”

“Yes, and he is questioning the household staff as we speak. Someone in Versailles had to have access to my brother’s rooms in order to deliver these messages.”

“Monsieur de la Reynie is very capable.”

“Indeed he is.”

“And... meeting the demands of the kidnappers is off the table?” Fabien asked, knowing full well what the answer to that particular question would be. 

“It is not an option,” the King answered, immovable. 

_Yes, that’s what I thought._ Fabien was silent for a moment. He debated whether he should come right out and ask the real question that was weighing on him, and had been ever since he was pulled from his prison cell. “Please forgive me, Your Majesty, but why am I here?” Even though he thought he had a clue, he wasn’t one hundred percent certain. He wanted to hear it from the King himself.

However, the Chevalier was the one to give him his answer. “Time is of the essence, sir. We now have less than 72 hours to find Philippe. If we don’t, he will be lost to us. You have a certain reputation for getting things done and committing to a case until it is solved. In order to save him, we need your… special brand of police work.” He locked eyes with Fabien. “Monsieur de la Reynie is a decent man, but he is not aggressive enough to find the root of this rebellion within the time constraints given to us. I know you and I have had our differences, but I believe it with my entire being - you are the only one who can bring Philippe home. Please.”

Fabien was silent. 

Louis felt he needed to offer incentive, and he had considered very carefully what would appeal to Fabien, based on all that had passed between them. “I am willing to negotiate a reasonable deal. If you agree to help us, I will offer you two options. You may resume working for the Crown, though possibly in a slightly different capacity, due to the employment of Monsieur de la Reynie and your recent… discontent with the scope of your former duties. Or, if you prefer not to continue in my service, you may consider yourself nobly retired. You would receive a generous yearly stipend and leave to travel wherever you wish within France’s borders or beyond, and you may begin a new life on your own terms. In either scenario, you will receive a full pardon, and I will consider the account settled between us.”

“And if I decline?”

There it was. The thing he feared when the Chevalier implored him to bring Marchal onto the case - the possibility of his refusal. Louis took a deep breath to steady himself. _So he WOULD deny us? Has his hatred of me grown so much that he would willingly let my brother die, just to punish me?_ He could not let himself become angry with Fabien, no matter how righteous such anger may be. Not when so much depended on this man. “If you decide you are unwilling to help, then our audience will be over and you will return to prison. I could not say when we would be able to revisit the subject of your sentencing; for the time being I must focus on preserving my brother’s life.” It was not a threat of death; only a return to the current status quo. Louis moved closer to his old friend. 

“I could command you,” he said quietly. “But if I had to do that, I would not be able to trust the outcome. So I humbly ask you, not as a king, but as a man who now fears for the life of his dearest family: please, Fabien. Please help me find my brother. I can only hope that your heart is not so hardened towards me for the things I have done and the things I have asked you to do. What do you think of the terms I have offered you?”

Fabien remained silent a moment more, thinking. He understood what it cost the King’s pride to bring him here today, to be willing to put his faith in him. He knew that Monsieur had many people counting on his safe return. Not just his royal brother, but his wife and his children, and his lover, who was standing in front of Fabien now, anguish mixing with a glimmer of hope in his blue eyes. He also knew if he refused this offer, it would not come again for him. 

“The terms are agreeable. I will do as Your Majesty wishes, for Monsieur’s sake, and so that you may know you never lost my loyalty. However…” he continued with caution. “And please forgive me, Sire, for bringing it up at such a sensitive time, but I would like to know what consequences I will face if things… do not end as we hope they will.”

The Chevalier closed his eyes, grimacing at the implication which he did not wish to think of, but Louis answered bluntly. “You mean, will I take action against you if my brother dies? No. Not unless you were to directly and maliciously cause his death, which I do not believe would ever happen.” 

Fabien nodded his agreement. The King held out his hand and Fabien clasped it, cementing their arrangement. 

“Thank you, Fabien,” Louis murmured, more grateful than he had ever been in his life. _So he is still loyal to me. If his only objection is the work I have had him do, then I can surely find him a different role. But he IS on my side. Now Philippe has a fighting chance, I am certain of it._ “Are you able to begin immediately?” 

Fabien nodded. “If I may start by speaking to Monsieur de la Reynie, Your Majesty. Although, if it please you, Sire, a bite to eat would not go amiss - my rations for the past few months have been somewhat lacking in edibility.” 

“Of course, you must eat breakfast and take care of any personal needs you may have. We will provide you with food and a change of clothing for your comfort, and have de la Reynie update you on what he has accomplished so far. You two will be working in tandem - separately, but equal in terms of authority. The Chevalier shall be liaison between the two investigations. Whatever you require, you shall have it.”

Fabien eyed the Chevalier carefully. “Sir, are you comfortable being part of this investigation? I only ask because of your special connection to Monsieur?”

“I need to be part of it, Inspector,” the Chevalier insisted. “I must see that Philippe is brought home safely. I assure you, I am willing to sacrifice whatever I must to achieve that end. Even if it means my own life.”

“Bravely spoken, sir. Then let us waste no more time.”

Louis was finally able to give a satisfied smile. With a bow, the two men were dismissed, first to feed and clothe Fabien in order to restore his health and dignity, and then to Monsieur de la Reynie to be informed of the status of his interrogations. _A strange pair,_ Louis thought as they left the room together - the disgraced chief of police and his brother’s lover. 

“Bontemps,” Louis summoned. The valet stepped away from the wall, ready to attend to his master’s wishes. “The Grand Levee is cancelled for the morning. Give some excuse that maintains the secrecy of our situation. I know you will think of an official statement that will suit me. I shall break my fast in my rooms now, and then I will spend time in prayer.” 

“Right away, Sire.” Bontemps bowed respectfully. “And if I may say, I hope that Your Majesty has been heartened by this morning’s interview. Whatever mistakes he has made in the past, Fabien Marchal has always been a man of his word.” Bontemps thought of Fabien as an old friend as well, and had been grieved by his imprisonment. His position prevented him from saying anything to contradict the King’s opinion, so he had regretfully not broached the subject. Thanks to the Chevalier, though, who was able to do what he could not, it seemed as though Fabien could at last make a new start. “If anyone can find Monsieur, it’s him. I am sure he will do his utmost for Your Majesty.”

“He will if he values his life.” Louis' expression hardened. 

Bontemps raised his eyebrows, the change in the King’s tone and demeanor taking him completely by surprise. “Forgive me Sire… I thought you said you would not blame Monsieur Marchal if things go wrong?” he questioned, suddenly concerned. The King now seemed like a different man than the one who had been begging for aid for his brother a moment earlier.

“I said _I_ would not take action against him. But the Chevalier made no such promise. And as he and I have privately discussed, if Philippe dies, he has my leave to solve the situation however he deems appropriate.” 

_But it shall not be needed,_ the King reassured himself, confidently. _Marchal shall not fail me, and I know that the Chevalier will not rest until Philippe is found. I can only pray that my brother will be well and unharmed when he is finally brought home._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Philippe is starting to lose it a little bit. He's going to be experiencing some PTSD (which is something this character has dealt with before), so just a trigger warning for that. It's hinted at in this chapter, but there will be more, so be prepared for the coming chapters. I will add the trigger in the tags.

Mathieu apparently only needed, or allowed himself, a few hours of sleep. When he returned to the cellar, Philippe was relieved to see him. The threats Etienne had made had caused him to choose silence while the older man guarded him. Etienne had not initiated any sort of conversation with him or engaged in any other recreation - he just sat, and watched. Philippe did not wriggle or sigh during those hours, despite the discomfort in his limbs slowly creeping into the realm of pain. Nor did he sleep. It was too difficult with Etienne’s eyes upon him.

Mathieu was more reserved when he reappeared. He immediately saw that Etienne had regagged Philippe and had made it harsher, but he knew not to remark on it. His friendliness had caused that bit of punishment and Philippe could see that the boy didn’t want to make the situation worse. On the one hand, he appreciated that Mathieu still appeared to be sympathetic to his plight. On the other hand, he worried that he would now have less opportunity to form a bond with his young captor and thus encourage his help. 

Philippe had thought that if and when he was finally allowed to answer nature’s call, it might be a possible opening to try and escape. Mathieu had left the room the previous evening to do so, and he figured there was no chamber pot in the building. If they took him outside to do his business, it would be perfect. He had been waiting for it, aching for it, no other plan but to burst free and run as fast and as far as he could. He did not anticipate that when the moment came, well over twenty four hours since he had last had the opportunity to piss, they would manage to find a chamber pot and bring it to him. He also did not anticipate that they would keep him bound. 

Etienne untied the ropes that held him to the chair, and the small loop that held his elbows to the back rung, but he left the bonds around his limbs intact. Philippe realized he had been tied quite strategically - even if he was not tied down, he was still completely restrained. And in what might have been the most mortifying moment of his entire adult life, his two captors aided him in relieving himself, Mathieu supporting his weight while Etienne took care of the chamber pot and his breeches. His entire being burned with shame, though neither Mathieu nor Etienne did anything to draw attention to his condition - they both even politely averted their eyes. He prayed he would not have to have a bowel movement any time soon; his pride would surely never recover. The situation was humiliating enough to where he barely cared how his body ached, not just from being locked in one position for so long, but also from the bruise that had grown on his hip from his earlier tumble to the floor, when he was caught making his first escape attempt.

Once he was resettled and re-bound in his chair, Etienne took his leave to dispose of the contents of the chamber pot and to get some sleep himself, with a final word of caution to Mathieu. “I would highly advise you to leave our guest as he is now. You have talked far too much for my liking. If I find that you have removed that gag before I instruct you to do so, you will be barred from this room and I will have Renard assume guardianship over Monsieur. I know His Highness will not appreciate you creating such awkwardness for him. Do you understand me, Mathieu?” 

“Yes, Etienne,” the boy answered, avoiding his step brother's eyes and looking properly chastised.

“I mean what I say - do not touch him.” Etienne left and shut the door loudly behind him. Mathieu sat down on the pallet and took out a small book - he also appeared to have been discouraged from his artistic pursuits. Etienne had taken his drawing with him, neatly folded away in his pocket. There was nothing to be done about it now.

The monotony of silence settled over the two men, and exhaustion began to creep back over Philippe. Feeling somewhat more comfortable in Mathieu’s presence, he allowed himself to zone out.

_His Chevalier stood before him, wearing only his breeches and a loose shirt. His golden mane curled softly around his shoulders, and his eyes twinkled with mischief. He grinned impishly at Philippe. “My goodness, Mignonette! What a predicament you’re in! You know, if you were in the mood for a little bit of bondage, you didn’t need to go to the extreme of getting yourself kidnapped. I would have been delighted to tie you up in the comfort of your own rooms, you naughty thing.”_

_He came closer and tipped Philippe’s chin upward to see him better. “Look at you! How cute you are.” The Chevalier gave him a gentle poke on the tip of his nose. “I fear I might be enjoying this a little too much. Forgive me, darling, but the idea of playing with you while you’re trussed up like this is simply irresistible.” He gave Philippe’s ribs a little tickle, making Philippe squirm. He hated being tickled. Philippe tried to command him to stop, which made the Chevalier giggle. “Mmm mmm mm, you say?” he playfully mimicked. “Sorry, love, I have no idea what that means. My word, you are so appealing with a gag in your mouth! Why haven’t we done this before? Go on, keep trying to talk to me - it sounds adorable.” He resumed his tickling. Philippe grunted, annoyed when the Chevalier laughed again. “Nope, still don’t understand a word. We’d better be careful your brother doesn’t get wind of this, or else he’ll have you wearing one of these on the regular. Wouldn’t he be pleased? All your backtalk reduced to obedient little mumbles?” Philippe mmm-ed something in response and glared, thinking perhaps the gag more properly belonged in someone else’s mouth._

_“Oh, don’t pout, darling. I’m sorry for being mean. I should be rescuing you, shouldn’t I? Let me make it up to you.” In the blink of an eye, the Chevalier shed his shirt and his breeches and stood gloriously naked in front of him. Philippe noticed how aroused his lover was, and the Chevalier noticed his notice. “You see what you do to me, Mignonette? Now, before I play the handsome hero that saves the damsel in distress, I want to take full advantage of you… I mean, of the situation. I am going to tease you some more, but I think you’ll enjoy this part.” He stepped closer and carefully straddled Philippe’s lap. Philippe felt himself stir. “Well, well…” the Chevalier murmured seductively, arching an eyebrow. “Looks like we are getting a bit excited.” He kissed Philippe’s gagged mouth, then moved to nibble on his neck as he grinded his hips against him, murmuring in between kisses, “My gorgeous… little… prisoner… so beautiful… and at my mercy…” He ran his hands over Philippe’s body, and Philippe shivered despite the heat that was kindling in his loins. He was growing harder by the second. He flexed his fingers, wishing his own hands were free so he could touch the naked blonde’s beautiful form._

_“As ravishing as you are this way, Mignonette, I wouldn’t make a habit of this,” the Chevalier purred as he let himself slide slowly to the floor in front of Philippe’s legs, sensually dragging his body along his lover’s. Once he was on his knees, he deftly unfastened the laces on the captive prince’s breeches. “Simply because, in addition to making the conversation terribly one-sided, that amazing mouth of yours is too talented to be blocked all the time. But since your mouth is currently full, it’s only fair that mine be, too.” The Chevalier inched Philippe’s breeches down, his bound lover shifting his pelvis as much he could to help make it easier to access his erection while in a seated position. The Chevalier buried his head into Philippe’s lap, and Philippe moaned wordlessly, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut in ecstasy, biting down on the fabric between his teeth._

_But as he opened his eyes to enjoy watching what the Chevalier was doing to his body, he saw Renard grab the handsome blonde’s head, pulling him up sharply and slicing his neck before the smile even left his lips. Startled, he cried out in horror as the Chevalier’s lifeblood spilled out…_

“Monsieur!”

Philippe snapped back to consciousness, on the verge of hysteria, any memories of arousal fled in terror. He couldn’t breathe… couldn’t breathe…

Before he knew what was happening, the gag was off and Mathieu pulled the stuffing out of his mouth. Philippe coughed and nearly retched once it was removed. Mathieu put a hand on his shoulder. “Your Highness, are you alright?” the boy asked worriedly. “Please, just breathe. You’re safe. You were nodding off a moment ago. Was it a dream?”

“I… R-Renard… he w-was…” he stammered through his panic. He couldn’t even get the words out, so chilling was the image burned into his mind. _T_ _hat horrible brute killing my love…_ He involuntarily shook his head with a low cry, desperate to shake the picture away.

“Oh no, sir, don’t worry. He isn’t here. He will not touch you. It’s been taken care of. Please, Monsieur, try to calm down.” Mathieu couldn’t have known that Philippe’s dream was not about being assaulted, but about watching Renard murder his Chevalier while he was helpless to stop it. He wasn’t about to go into it, because this boy couldn’t possibly understand the relationship he had with his lover. He tried to slow his breathing, which was made more difficult by the tautness of the ropes wrapped around him. 

“Would you like a sip of water?” Philippe could only nod shakily. Mathieu fetched the flask of water, quickly opening it and holding it to Philippe’s lips. As the prince tried to take in the water amidst his gasps, Mathieu gently supported the back of his head and quietly said, “Easy now. No one is going to hurt you. You’ll be alright.” 

Philippe slowly recovered. He was finally able to rasp out, “Thank you…” to Mathieu. Then he wryly asked, “I thought you weren’t supposed to ungag me?”

“I’m not. But you sounded like you were in real distress. I was afraid you might be about to choke. If I’m reprimanded for it, then so be it.” Mathieu set the flask back down when it appeared that Philippe was finished drinking from it.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Philippe found himself asking in a whisper, hardly recognizing the quiver in his voice. “Why are you part of this? I can see you have a good heart. Why have you allowed these men to drive you to treason?”

“I cannot have this conversation with you. I will wait until you have gathered yourself before I put this back on,” Mathieu indicated the cloth in his hands, “but you shouldn’t talk to me.” He shook his head. “Etienne has been there for me my whole life. I owe him so much. He’s trying to change things for the better. He wants to _help_ people. He is angry at how the king has treated us, but he means no real harm. Not to you or to anyone - he just thought this would get the King’s attention. It’s like the prophets of the Old Testament, ‘speaking truth to power,’ he says.”

“Whatever he says it is, it’s still treason,” Philippe muttered.

“He is my family,” Mathieu chided him.

“I have a family, too, you know. A wife and children - my son is not even a year old. What is to become of them?” Philippe pleaded. “I can protect you, you know. If you would help me, I would make sure you were pardoned. I’ll tell the King you had nothing to do with my capture and instead you saved me, and aided in my escape.”

“I can’t do that, Your Highness,” Mathieu said, and he seemed genuinely grieved. “I have great respect for you, sir, and I hope you will one day forgive what we have done to you. I am well aware that we might die for this, and I’ve known it from the start. But the most I can do right now is make sure you remain safe until the King complies with our request. Then we will release you and it’ll be all over. You just need to endure for a little while longer-”

“Don’t you understand?” Philippe interrupted in desperation. “The King is not going to meet your demands.”

“Of course he will,” Mathieu tried to reassure him, not understanding his doubt. “You’re his brother - he will do whatever he must to get you back.”

Philippe shook his head insistently. “No. I’ve tried to tell you all this. My brother is a King above all else. I know him, and I know that he will not yield to anyone. Especially not for me.”

“I don’t understand. He has nothing to lose by giving us what we ask. Do you not believe he cares enough for you to make such a minor concession for his people? I don’t see how that could be.”

“The King… does his best,” Philippe said, resigned. “He loves me as much as he can. It may not seem like it when viewed as an ordinary fraternal relationship. But that is because he is not an ordinary man. There’s a balancing act: I must support without overshadowing. I am to be an ornament but not a threat. I am his brother, but must also be his subject. And so he loves me less than I love him, because I am less than he.”

Mathieu was stunned by Philippe’s admission. He couldn’t seem to wrap his brain around it. “If he believed your life was at stake…”

“He would mourn me for the appropriate length of time, and then he would continue his reign. All you will have succeeded in doing is give him more justification to continue his persecution. He will hold your entire religion responsible for my death.”

“But we aren’t going to kill you, Your Highness! I swear, it will not happen.”

“You might as well, if you’re really going to transport me to the colonies. I will not survive that voyage - certainly not if you plan on sending me there as a criminal, in the abysmal conditions of a prison ship. It would be better for you to just kill me outright.”

“You don’t mean that, Your Highness,” the boy whispered, shocked at the darkness of Philippe’s words. 

“I do mean it. I’ve been in battle; I’ve been prepared to die in France’s service on many occasions. I do not _want_ to die now, but if I must, I would rather die here, in my own land, rather than anonymously in the middle of the Atlantic...with my body tossed overboard and lost to the sea.” Philippe squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered as he imagined being pulled downward into cold, watery darkness, without confession or last rites. He could feel the heat of frustrated tears behind his eyelids. He was beginning to fray and he hated himself for it. _Damn it, I will not snivel like a baby in front of this boy! I will not be weak._

“Please, Your Highness, don’t talk this way. It sounds like you are giving up, and you must not! You will not die. You will be able to see your family again soon. It will be alright, I swear.” Mathieu placed a comforting hand on Philippe’s shoulder, which actually made the prince want to weep even more. _I’m about to lose my mind. My kidnapper is trying to console me. Could anything be more pathetic?_ “I wish I could do something to help you,” Mathieu murmured.

“You know what you could do for me,” Philippe said reproachfully.

“You don’t understand…”

“No, I don’t,” Philippe shook his head, with a pained smile. “I don’t understand at all. I don’t know why you won’t help me. Perhaps I misjudged you. You claim to be a follower of Christ, but you know in your soul what you’re doing is wrong.”

“Yes. It is wrong…” Mathieu said slowly, paling as Philippe’s words hit his heart. “I… I need to think.” He clenched his fists as he wrestled with his conscience, belatedly realizing he still had fabric in his hands. Apologetically, he said, “I’m sorry, Your Highness. Etienne could return at any time, so I have to gag you now. I know how you dislike it, but if he finds out I disobeyed his orders, I won’t be allowed near you anymore.”

“I know,” Philippe sighed, but he wondered what it was Mathieu needed to think about. He could see the lad’s thoughts churning behind his furrowed brow, and he wished he could know what was going through his mind. 

“I will try to make it less tight than it was.” Mathieu folded the cloth into as small of a ball as he could before he placed it back in Philippe’s mouth. Then he carefully retied the gag. Philippe could tell he was making every effort to be gentle with him. And indeed, it was not as bad as it had been earlier.

“If I do help you it must be done carefully,” Mathieu quietly continued, once he had silenced the prince. “I will think about what you’ve said. But I can’t take any action until I know what steps Etienne plans to take next. I can do nothing while he is here. If you can just be patient…” Philippe silently nodded. He hardly dared to acknowledge the flame of hope that now flickered inside him. _I’m so tired. And stressed. No wonder I’m falling apart. If I can just manage to hold it together a little longer… and hope that I managed to get through to this boy. Please God, let him be clever enough to think of something._


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for depiction of suicide of a minor character. I didn't add it to the tags because it only features in this chapter, and again, it is a minor character.

The Chevalier dismissed his personal dresser and stood back to admire his efforts. Fabien looked much improved - after eating a humble breakfast of the best food he had had in months, he had bathed, shaved, and his tattered prison rags had been swapped out for a dark, sober-looking suit. He looked much more like his old self, and now he was fit to be seen (and smelled) in public. 

During the process of making the inspector presentable, the Chevalier had discovered a secret part of himself that had been harboring a surprising amount of blame towards Fabien for apparently influencing Philippe’s adoption of a constant grey/black color scheme in his wardrobe since his return from war, which he was only just beginning to coax him out of. Philippe and Fabien had been thick as thieves for a time, though he didn’t exactly understand why. He had never asked Philippe, partly because he didn’t want to relive that time they were apart - they had both done things they did not wish to hash out right now. But also because he sensed that Philippe would tell him eventually on his own. There had been a lot of wounds that had come to the prince's surface since their reconciliation. Most of it was from the war, some of it was from his brother. But Philippe was beginning to confide in him more and more, allowing himself to be beautifully vulnerable and admitting when he needed help. Whatever the business with Marchal was, they’d get to it in time. He thankfully felt no jealousy over the matter, since he was very good at being able to tell on which side a man buttered his bread, and he knew Fabien Marchal was no threat in that regard.

“You look ready to reenter polite society, Monsieur,” the Chevalier said approvingly.

“I feel like a new man,” Fabien said, giving what, for him, passed as a smile. “I appreciate your help, Chevalier.”

“I think at this point, you can call me Lorraine.” Handing Fabien a pin for his cravat, he said, “I suppose we have something in common now, don’t we? We’ve both been out of the King’s favor and tossed into prison for dubious reasons.”

Fabien looked at him archly. “You weren’t tossed in for dubious reasons - you were part of a conspiracy to overthrow the King.”

“Look, let’s not split hairs,” the Chevalier grumbled. “I’m trying to be sympathetic and tell you that I wish to provide for your comfort however I may.”

“Why? Given how I treated you when I arrested you?” Fabien studied the stylish blonde. “You can’t have very warm feelings toward me after that.”

“Yes, well...you were doing your job. And, if my actions can be considered water under the bridge, then so can yours. So don’t worry about it.”

“I wasn’t.”

The Chevalier chose to ignore that. “Besides, it is precisely because you do your job well that I wanted you to help us. I meant what I said back in the presence chamber. I know that if there is anyone who can bring Philippe home safely, it’s you. And for that, there is nothing too great that I can give to you.”

Bontemps appeared at the door. At the sight of the King’s valet, the Chevalier felt his entire body tighten. _Has he come to tell me bad news? Please, not that..._ But Bontemps said, “Pardon me, sir, but there is a delivery of wine barrels for the King’s fete, and they are asking for you.”

The Chevalier exhaled with immense relief, and then inhaled with annoyance. “Shit. I’ll be right back - this damn soiree has taken over my entire life these days and I’m having a great deal of trouble right now not letting the whole thing go up in flames.”

“Why are you still preparing for it?”

Bontemps answered, “The King has commanded that for the time being, there be no change in the daily workings of the palace. He is trying to keep Monsieur’s disappearance as quiet as possible, not only because of the Spanish ambassador’s impending arrival, but also for fear that any spies within the court will catch on to the investigations. He doesn’t want these criminals to make rash decisions if we happen to find a lead. Which means that, if there is a conspirator at Versailles, the King, Madame, and the Chevalier are likely being watched especially closely for their reactions.”

“I see the King’s reasoning, but it seems strange to be preparing for a party when his brother is missing.”

The Chevalier gave Fabien a look, as if to say, _Don’t get me started, because I will not be able to stop myself._ He had wanted to slug the Sun King in the face when he had instructed him to continue plans for the fete. Never mind the fact that the King’s brother and the love of the Chevalier’s life was a hostage, and there was a ticking clock element to this whole debacle. But hitting the King would have sent him on the fast track to the execution block, and he was just not in the mood. “Let me handle this final bit of business and get rid of these people.” He quickly excused himself and Bontemps guided him through the halls to the courtyard, where the vintner’s wagon was unloading their shipment of barrels, aided by members of the kitchen staff. It was a small shipment today.

The Chevalier was anxious to get this over with. He scoured the activity for the man in charge: an educated, fairly personable, if somewhat condescending, gentleman named Etienne Barrineau. He did not see him, but did see the second-in-command, the one who had been assisting in the deliveries all week. He approached the large man, already grimacing, for this fellow was not the most pleasant of people to deal with. He assumed this one had been hired exclusively for manual labor, not for business acumen or salesmanship. 

“Good morning. Where is Monsieur Barrineau?”

“Gathering the shipment for tomorrow,” the assistant said tersely.

“Cutting things rather close, aren’t we?”

“You’ll have your barrels in time for your little party. And Barrineau will expect the remainder of his payment tomorrow upon delivery.”

 _Charming,_ the Chevalier thought bitterly. _He will certainly hear about your level of etiquette when dealing with customers. I doubt I will be doing business with you all in the future. I’d cancel it right now if I didn’t have to justify my expenses for the King._ He gave a tight smile. It was almost laughable how much he disliked this man. “Right. I’ll have it ready for him personally when _he_ arrives. With the last installment of the _King’s_ order.” 

The surly assistant reached into his pocket and handed the Chevalier a document, painstakingly copied on parchment paper. “Here’s the bill of sale, including the inventory of what was delivered on what day. Monsieur Barrineau has already signed off next to the previous deliveries, and he will sign tomorrow for the last one.”

“Fine, fine,” the Chevalier said dismissively. He was eager to be done with the whole matter. He gave the bill only a cursory glance, noted the signatures, and then folded it to fit into his coat pocket. He would handle it later, and hope that Barrineau came through tomorrow morning. But he had more pressing concerns to deal with now.

* * *

The Chevalier found Fabien circling the salons, blending into the background, quietly observing and listening to the chatter. He might not have noticed him at all if Fabien had not quietly tapped his shoulder in passing, indicating that they should discreetly step into the corridor to speak. 

“Forgive me,” the Chevalier breathed, acknowledging the inspector, but assuming a calm demeanor so that no one who observed them talking would find anything amiss. “That business with the wine took far longer than I thought it would.” They slowly made their way out of the salon.

“I did happen to encounter Monsieur de la Reynie,” Fabien said carefully. “He did not seem very happy to see me, and was even less willing to speak to me. I think he believes I’m here to supplant him.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” the Chevalier rolled his eyes. “I suppose we should have given him some warning, but I regret that his feelings have not been my top priority right now. I will smooth things over - he will not give you any trouble. But first, if you will indulge me, I wish to check in on Liselotte.”

“Is Madame well?” 

“As well as can be expected, under the circumstances,” the Chevalier said, affection and worry apparent in his tone. “She had a very difficult night and I’m sure she slept about as well as I did. Which was not at all, in case you were wondering.” Looking around, he noted she was not present in the company of the courtiers. “I imagine that if she is not resting or at prayer, she is keeping close to her rooms.”

“If I may, I would like to present myself to Madame, and assure her of my commitment to her husband’s return. That is, if you think it would help ease her mind at all. I do not wish to overstep.”

“You are more than welcome. She will appreciate the courtesy and be glad to know you are involved.” 

As the men arrived at the quiet Orleans’ suite, the Chevalier chose to first quickly scan the sitting room for the Princess Palatine before potentially disturbing her rest. He was surprised to see a young man, dressed as a page, exiting from Philippe’s bedroom. The Chevalier was instantly on edge, for that room had been closed off since the finding of the destroyed coat and the ransom note. 

“What were you doing in there?” he asked sharply. The page, startled, immediately started walking quickly to the door without acknowledging the question. “Come back here! I asked you a question.” The page broke into a run, blatantly ignoring the instructions of a nobleman. 

Instantly, the Chevalier knew. He realized that this man must have something to do with Philippe’s abduction, even if only tangentially. Why else would he flee before even being accused of anything? He yelled, “Fabien, stop him! Guards! Stop that man!” He could not let him get away.

Fabien proved to be much quicker than he looked post-prison, for he had begun tailing the young man before Chevalier had finished his command. Once the page started running, he sped after him, the Chevalier trailing behind and cursing that his well-heeled shoes were not meant for sprinting. Palace guards, alerted by the Chevalier’s calls for aid, joined in the chase into the salons. Courtiers were pushed aside or jumped out of the way of their own volition, gasping and shrieking at the mad pursuit and wondering what crime was occurring to warrant such a breach of protocol.

The chase ended when the young man was cornered in a room at the western end of the palace, guards on every side with swords drawn. There was nowhere else he could run. 

Panting, the Chevalier and Fabien moved in to confront him. “Explain yourself, boy!” the Chevalier demanded angrily.

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” the page insisted, his face pale and sweating.

“Then why would you run from me?” demanded the Chevalier. “I asked you a simple question! What were you doing in the Duc d’Orleans bedroom?”

“I don’t have to answer to you. God shall be my judge.”

If that wasn’t an admission of guilt, the Chevalier didn’t know what was. 

“You _will_ answer to the King.” Turning to the guards, the Chevalier said, “Arrest this man - he is a traitor. Inform Inspector de la Reynie that we have a suspect in custody, and send word to the King-”

“‘But before all these, they shall lay their hands on you, and persecute you, delivering you up into prisons, being brought before kings and rulers for my name's sake,’” murmured the young man, breathing heavily and beginning to smile grimly. 

“What?” 

The page lifted his head and spoke louder now to his bewildered audience. “‘Blessed is a man who perseveres under trial; for once he has been approved, he will receive the crown of life which the Lord has promised to those who love Him.’ I am ready, Lord!”

“What are you-- No, STOP!”

No one was close enough to prevent the page from bolting to the window and throwing himself through it. As the glass shattered, the accused man disappeared from sight, tumbling headlong two stories down to the hard marble promenade below. The fall alone might have been survivable, but the crunch of skull and bones upon the landing was not. Screams could be heard from those outside who witnessed the horror of raining glass shards and a man’s suicide. The Chevalier felt sick to his stomach as he gazed down from the window at the page’s broken body. _My God, he did not hesitate to kill himself. He was part of this plot and he took his own life rather than face questioning._

The Chevalier dropped to his knees, shaking from head to toe. Fabien knelt to steady him. He had been surprised by the servant’s actions as well, but was not as alarmed by the sight of such violent, sudden death, for he had spent the better part of his career witnessing and even carrying out such things. He had seen too much in his life to be shocked anymore. “Easy, Lorraine,” he said gently, hoping to calm the traumatized gentleman. 

The Chevalier barely heard him. _Our only potential lead, and he’s dead. Should I not have confronted him? What else was I supposed to do? Did I just cost us our only chance to save Philippe? Oh, Mignonette…my love… what have I done?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The page quotes Luke 21:12 and James 1:12.
> 
> I rewrote this half a dozen times. I feel like I do not have the best grasp of Fabien Marchal as a character, but I'm hoping I made it better than it was, and that it will improve as I become more familiar with his personality on the page.


	10. Chapter 10

With a deep breath, Louis turned to the three men before him in his presence chamber. “Monsieurs, I was not in the best of moods before this moment, and now I am exceedingly unhappy. You see, I thought there had been a breakthrough in the case of my brother’s abduction. A suspect was caught in the act of leaving the Duc d’Orleans’ private quarters, where he was forbidden to be. You were going to take that suspect into custody, and you were going to interrogate him further. Now that suspect is dead. Very publicly dead.”

De la Reynie, Marchal, and the Chevalier could not refute the King’s statements. The suicide of the attendant weighed heavily on them, even de la Reynie - though he wasn’t present at the scene, it was precisely because he wasn’t present that deeply bothered him. But no one was feeling as bad as the Chevalier, who believed that he was to blame for the loss of this potential key to finding Philippe. To be so close, and then to have this lead slip through his fingers… He finally mustered his courage to speak. “Your Majesty, I take full responsibility. I was the first to confront the man, and I was the one who alerted the guards to pursue him. I did not know he would be willing to take his own life rather than answer our questions. I do not know how else I should have proceeded, but I shall accept the blame for his death. I just… I was just so desperate to get answers, to learn anything that could help…” He trailed off, knowing what this loss may have cost them. 

The King was silent for a long time. When he spoke, it was measured and careful. “Lorraine, you are blameless in the death of this man. All of you are blameless. He took his own life, which cements his guilt as far as I’m concerned. I do not know what you should have done differently to keep alive someone who so desperately wanted to be a martyr. No one could have possibly anticipated he would be so unstable when confronted with why he was where he shouldn’t have been. There is the matter of pursuing him through the salons, and the very well-viewed nature of his death. It has set tongues wagging. We can explain it away, if we must. What do we know about him?”

Monsieur de la Reynie cleared his throat. “The castle staff has informed me that the young man’s name was Sebastien Donais, from Nemours. He was about 27 years old or so, and has worked in the royal kitchens since September.”

“Then why was he dressed in the livery of a page?”

“No one has been able to tell me that, Your Majesty.”

“That costume is how he gained access to my brother’s apartments. I want to know how a kitchen worker obtained the uniform of a royal attendant.” Louis began to pace, letting his thoughts ruminate. “So, he was a lower servant pretending to be above his station; he is already branded a liar and an imposter by that fact. It should be a small matter to charge him with some other crime that would drive a man to take his own life rather than face consequences. Desperate men do desperate things. Now, Inspector de la Reynie - you’ve just examined my brother’s rooms. Did you find anything?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. There was another note upon the Duc d’Orleans’ bed, which we can assume was left there by Donais before the Chevalier discovered him. The note is like the first: the same quality of paper, the same penmanship addressing it to _Le Roi Soleil._ I have not opened it, Sire; I knew you would wish to do so first.” 

Louis held out his hand and received the message. He opened the seal, and as he did a separate page fell out. Bontemps, ever at the King’s elbow, swiftly scooped it up for his master, but blanched when he saw what was on it. Louis did not see his reaction, but focused on reading the latest missive from the rebels.

_To our most Sovereign King,_

_We hope Your Majesty has had a peaceful night and a productive day, and were able to prayerfully consider the request We have made to restore full rights to France’s Protestant citizens. Monsieur is still in good health, though he perhaps misses the luxury of Versailles and Your Majesty’s esteemed company. It is hard to tell; he has not had much to say on the matter, or on anything else._

_One of our number has a talent for artistic renderings, and was delighted with the opportunity to have Monsieur sit for a rough portrait. The result is included with this missive for Your Majesty’s pleasure. We think Your Majesty will agree it is a remarkable likeness, and We do hope this will ease any lingering concerns regarding Monsieur’s well-being. The artist, though lacking in refinement (which We hope Your Majesty will excuse), has managed to accurately depict Monsieur’s many considerable charms, which We are finding quite difficult to resist. As Your Majesty can no doubt see, Monsieur is in no position to defend himself from any unwanted advances. It may be in Monsieur’s best interest if Your Majesty expedites his plans for the new edict so that he can return home sooner rather than later._

_Nevertheless, at midnight tonight, Your Majesty shall have 48 hours remaining to take action in regards to our request._

_We remain Your Majesty’s humble servants,_

_THE REMNANT_

Louis cast his eyes sideways at his valet. “Is that the portrait they reference?” Bontemps gave a rather sick-looking nod of affirmation. “Well? Show it to us.”

“Sire… I don’t know if you should-”

“Bontemps! I said, show it. I want to understand the meaning of this message.”

The valet revealed the sketch to the audience. There was an intake of air at the sight.

“Fucking shit!” The King exploded. He snatched the picture and stared at it in swiftly growing outrage. His brother - for there was no denying that was who was depicted - heavily bound and gagged in a chair. “They’ve sent this to intimidate me! They want me to see that he’s defenseless. They mock me! There is no reason to do this to Philippe. Any decent person would merely lock him up in a room somewhere… or put him under guard, or… or something. But not this! A Prince of France, restrained in such a fashion! And to dare insinuate that they would even consider…” Louis couldn’t say the word. His tongue could not form it, so heinous was the notion. He chose an alternative, though it had the same meaning. “ _...violating_ him. These people are inhuman!”

“Your Majesty, there’s no reason to think that Monsieur is actually being treated like this,” Monsieur de la Reynie interjected, hoping to calm his Sovereign. “This drawing might merely be the product of someone’s foul imagination. Or perhaps he was bound just long enough for them to make the sketch, for your benefit, and then-”

“I do not need the conjecture, sir!” Louis shouted. Monsieur de la Reynie quickly shut up. “The image is there, and whether he is still in this position or not, he is still a prisoner. I refuse to look at this filth. It’s going in the fire!”

“Do not destroy it, Your Majesty,” Fabien warned.

“But it’s twisted!”

“I know, Sire. But as unspeakable as it is, it’s also evidence. We must keep anything the kidnappers send us, no matter how distasteful, in case there is a clue buried somewhere.” 

Louis let the paper drop as if it had been set ablaze already. “Fine. Keep it for evidence if you must, but I do not wish to look upon it again. I cannot bear to see my brother so humiliated. The moment this is over and he is safely restored to me, I want that picture burned to ashes. And for God’s sake, do not let the Duchesse see it! Such things are not for ladies’ eyes, and I do not wish to upset her any more than she already is.” Fabien retrieved the hated sketch from the floor.

The Chevalier had no idea what to think. He couldn’t stop himself from looking at the drawing. If this had been done in fun, as with one of their bedroom romps - just between the two of them - he could possibly find the sketch appealing. Objectively, it _was_ well done. The artist had made Philippe look lovely (well, of course he was lovely - when was he not?), almost sensual, in his helplessness. God forgive him, he loved it when the prince was submissive. He himself had technically tied Philippe up before (a fact he would never divulge in this company), but that was different. That had been… not 'innocent,' no, that wasn’t the right word… but 'harmless.' Philippe had consented to it, wanted it, even enjoyed it. And then he had repaid the Chevalier in kind. Had the circumstances been different, he could have wanted this sketch of his beloved in his _private_ private collection. 

But the same quality which would have normally sparked the Chevalier’s interest was also what repulsed him now. This was not a choice; this was not a naughty little game from the boudoir, Philippe playfully playing the captive and waiting for the Chevalier to tease and tantalize him, and then "save" him with sex. It was real. It was disturbing. Someone else was looking at Philippe with a lustful eye, and the prince was indeed helpless. As exquisite as that quality was in someone as capable and strong as the Duc d'Orleans, knowing that this image was made with sinister intentions, all but spelled out in the kidnappers’ message, caused the Chevalier's stomach to turn. Where the Sun King was boiling with hot rage at the sight of his brother so disrespected, the Chevalier felt an icy hate spread through him. _If they touch him..._ he vowed coldly. _If any one of these devils lays one stinking, unworthy hand on him, I will make them regret ever being born - no, they will regret the moment their parents ever laid eyes on each other. I will make them WISH for death._

“What is the plan, Fabien?” the King asked. De la Reynie sputtered, feeling as though his greatest fears were coming true - he was being supplanted by a convict. 

Fabien answered quickly, “We should continue interviewing the castle staff, this time focusing on those who knew this Sebastien Donais - what sort of man he was, who were his friends, whom did he confide in. Obviously, he held Protestant beliefs. Was there anyone at Versailles who knew that he was, by all accounts, a heretic? Monsieur de la Reynie has done such a thorough job with the interrogations so far, he already has a solid foundation on which to build. So if he would like to handle this?” Fabien looked to the chief of police, and both Louis and the Chevalier had to admire his deft diplomatic handling of the man’s jealousy. De la Reynie felt somewhat validated and nodded.

“We must also go through Donais’s personal possessions, whatever they were,” Fabien continued. “He clearly had contact with the Remnant, if he was not a member himself. How many of those contacts were within Versailles and how many were outside these walls? We may be able to find names, plans, other messages - any number of things that could help our search.”

“Take care of that, and alert me to what you find.” Louis felt the twinges of his tension headache coming on again. _I don’t know how much more of this I can take._ His mind was now lingering on that image of his brother struggling in captivity. It was burned into his mind, despite his refusal to continue looking at it. How must Philippe be feeling? Afraid? Alone? Humiliated? In pain? It hurt too much - he had to leave this company before his confidence wavered.

“I need to pray for my brother. You know what to do. But before I dismiss you, I must say this. Hear me, and take heed, gentlemen: I want Philippe found, and I want his captors taken alive if possible.” The King’s voice became low and menacing. “I want them alive because I want them to account for every mark on my brother’s body. Every minute that he was restrained. Every indignity inflicted upon him - I want them to pay dearly for it. They will receive death for their treachery, of course, but first, I want them to _suffer._ I will see to it that anyone seeking to hurt me will think twice before coming after my family!”

 _Get in line, Your Majesty,_ the Chevalier thought grimly.


	11. Chapter 11

When the Chevalier came back to the Orleans suite, he was alone. It was late afternoon. He had not eaten since breakfast, and he wasn’t sure if he could eat now. De La Reynie had begun his next round of interrogations, and Marchal had gone to investigate Sebastien Donais’s quarters and search his possessions. Though Fabien had asked him to hold onto the kidnappers’ notes and the infamous drawing so that he might study them more closely later on, the Chevalier’s main job was to be of a more domestic nature - taking care of Philippe's household. Upon seeing him enter the sitting room, Liselotte came running to him and caught him in a tight embrace. The trusted lady-in-waiting that had kept the Princess Palatine company throughout the day delicately slipped out, knowing that the Chevalier was the preferred companion. She knew about Monsieur’s disappearance and that he could not be found, but knew none of the circumstances, and she was forbidden to speak of it to anyone but Madame. She was curious, but deep down, the woman simply believed that Monsieur had run off in a dalliance with a new lover. Why else would both his wife and his known favorite be comforting each other?

“I heard what happened!” Liselotte breathlessly said, pulling back to study the Chevalier with worried blue eyes. “I was in the chapel, praying. I was told that some raving zealot had been caught trespassing in Philippe’s room and that he jumped out a window! The whole court was buzzing about it.”

The Chevalier nodded. “Yes, Marchal and I caught him red-handed, and when we confronted him and tried to arrest him, he led us on a merry chase through the salons and then leaped to his death.”

“How horrible! Thank God you were not hurt!”

“I was not at risk, dear girl.”

Liselotte gave him a light punch on the shoulder in frustration. “Don’t patronize me, you ass; you could have been! We don’t know what these people are like - he had no regard for his own life, so why would he regard anyone else’s?” The Chevalier could see that she was not truly angry at him. She was just on edge, feeling paranoid and helpless as the men in her life were facing danger. “What if you had happened upon this man and he had been armed? Or you had not had Marchal with you? He could have hurt you. He might have hurt _me_ if I had been here.”

That got his attention. “I didn’t think of that," he admitted, blanching at the thought of Liselotte being the one to have discovered the trespasser. While he was pretty certain he could have defended himself if he had needed to, if that man had intended harm, he could have surely done it. “Forgive me, Liselotte. I wasn’t thinking about anything except finding out what he knew about Philippe. Now that you’ve mentioned it, I am immensely relieved you weren’t here.” 

“Do you know what his purpose was?”

“He left another note for the King in Philippe’s room.”

“I thought so. I assumed that’s why he would have risked coming in here. What did the note say?”

“It was like the first one, mainly a reminder for how much time the King has left to reinstate the rights of Protestant citizens.” The Chevalier shrugged, but Liselotte saw right through him. When it came to Philippe, he was utterly rubbish at hiding when he was bothered.

“What is that look for? They have not harmed him, have they?” Liselotte asked urgently.

“No, no. They said he is well. Still unharmed. But…” he paused, wondering if it was wise to tell her. She would just keep pushing until he did, so maybe he should get it over with. “There was a token enclosed.”

“I see,” Liselotte murmured, thinking about the implications of what the Chevalier said. “They did say in their first note they might send the King more evidence that he was with them. What was the token? Something else he was wearing yesterday, or that he had on him?”

“No. It was… it was a sketch.”

“A sketch? You mean, like a drawing? Of Philippe?” She was so confused. So Philippe had been abducted by artists? How utterly bizarre.

“Yes.”

“You look very disturbed. What’s the matter with this drawing? Show it to me.”

“Liselotte, my dear, you really don’t want to see it,” the Chevalier warned. “The King doesn’t want you to see it. I will tell you that it is a depiction of Philippe as their prisoner. It’s… rather hard to look at.”

“But you saw it? I told you last night - do not try to shield me from hard things. We are in this together, and he is my husband, Lorraine. If you can bear it, as much as you love him, then so can I. If you have it with you, I want to see. I want to know what’s happening to him.”

 _God forgive me,_ thought the Chevalier. He pulled the drawing from his right pocket (the notes were in the left, along with another paper he had forgotten about) and carefully unfolded it for her. Liselotte gasped, and her hand went to her mouth in shock at the sight of her husband captive. “Oh, God in heaven. What have they done to him?”

“I had feared this, but we shouldn’t be surprised. Knowing Philippe, of course he would have fought like a lion to get away from these people. It’s no wonder they would resort to something like this to keep him under their control.”

“You can put it away now," Liselotte said after a moment, averting her eyes from the image. "I hate seeing Philippe like this, as I’m sure you do, and I’m sure he’s mad as hell about it. But I can accept it, as long as that is as much as they’ve done. I’d rather he be merely tied up than injured or dead, if those are my only options. If he’s safely restrained, then there shouldn’t be any reason for them to cause him harm, no?” She looked at him for confirmation, hoping that her husband being inconvenienced with some mildly uncomfortable bondage would be the extent of the damage done by this plot. 

“I certainly pray that’s the case.” The Chevalier kept the kidnappers’ veiled threats of molestation to himself. He prayed Liselotte would not ask to see the letter. Despite her insistence that she didn’t need to be protected from upsetting information, he couldn’t bring himself to mention it. Not just because he didn’t want to imagine such things happening to his lover. 

She had not come right out and said so, and perhaps she was not even completely sure herself, at least as far as announcing it. But the recent fatigue… the changes in her appetite - the craving for apple strudel was a dead giveaway. The Chevalier knew she and Philippe had had intimate relations in recent weeks. She wanted another baby very much, and while Philippe was in the throes of his post-war darkness, he had put her off. He had put a lot of people off as he tried to piece together his damaged spirit all on his own. But since finding his way back to the light of their love, he had certainly shared Liselotte’s bed to make up for his negligence. The Chevalier really did not mind that he needed to do his duty to his wife, feeling, for the first time, completely secure of his position in Philippe’s heart.

Of course, the Chevalier realized there was a great possibility he was wrong; after all, the first time Liselotte had been pregnant, she was quite ill for several of the early months, and she was not experiencing such violent morning sickness now. Or was she? He had not seen her in the mornings for several weeks due to all the work he had been putting in for the fete. He sighed quietly. If she wasn't ready to talk about it, then it wasn’t his place to pry. He almost didn’t want to know. Not until Philippe was there to hear the news as well. It was his child after all. But until Philippe returned, he had to make sure Liselotte, and the child (if there was one), were safe and well. If it all went to hell, he owed it to his lover to take care of his family.

* * *

_Louis knelt in prayer, fervently begging God Almighty to preserve his brother during this time of trial. He kept thinking he heard a dripping sound, and mentally told himself there must be a leak somewhere in the chapel._ _As he finished his final Amens, he heard a low moan. Before he crossed himself, he looked around. Was there someone else in the chapel with him? He had asked for privacy. If there was someone here, they sounded unwell. He did not see anyone. Perhaps it was his imagination._

_He heard the sound of dripping again. Annoyed, he stood and decided to look for the leak himself. He would have something to say to the carpenters about this. He had an ambassador’s entourage on their way for an official visit and he already had a broken window to attend to. He didn’t need a flooded chapel as well._

_The dripping came from behind the altar. It wasn’t proper to go back there, but was he not King, God’s authority on earth? He would be absolved if he crossed that boundary. He stepped over the communion railing and walked behind the Lord’s table. Against the wall, he saw a puddle forming. The liquid was dark. He hesitantly touched his hands to it, and when his fingertips came back stained with red, he looked up in alarm towards the crucifix above him, to see if he could find the source._

_It was not the image of the Lord, but the living body of Philippe up on the wall, bound and nailed to the cross, blood dripping from countless wounds. Louis cried out in horror. “Philippe? Oh my God! Oh... oh shit! What is this? Who has done this to you?”_

_“You have,” Philippe weakly looked down at him, his breathing ragged, his hair matted from the seeping puncture wounds made by the crown of thorns he wore. “Why have you forsaken me?”_

_Louis shook his head in denial. "What are you saying? I haven’t forsaken you. I could never-!”_

_“You have left me to die. You are Cain and I am Abel, after all. I will die because of your sins. You’ve left me...”_

_“Philippe, no!” Louis gasped. “You won’t die. I will get you down from there. Help me! Someone help!” Despite his shouts, no one came to his aid. Where were his guards? Where was Bontemps? Or his chaplain? He had asked for privacy, not to be utterly abandoned! Philippe was slowly suffocating on a cross, like Jesus himself, dangling in mid-air like a grotesque piece of art, and there was no other soul around to help. “Hold on, brother. I’m coming. Just stay with me!” Louis shoved the heavy altar with all his might closer to the wall. He managed to move it a few inches closer, and then scrambled atop the high holy table. As he stood precariously on the edge, he reached out for his wounded little brother. If he could pull the cruel spikes out of Philippe’s flesh… if he could unbind him and bring him down… if he could stop all the bleeding from his hands and his feet and his head and his nose and his side…_

_“It is finished,” Philippe whispered. “You have forsaken me.”_

_“It’s not finished, not yet. You're going to be alright, brother. Hold on, give me just a minute… I won’t let you die! I’m here, Philippe - I’ve almost got you…” Louis stretched as far as he could to touch his brother as he hung upon that cross, to prove that he was able to be saved, that he was not forgotten or unloved. He watched as Philippe’s sad, pale green eyes rolled back and his bloody head drooped as life left him. He gave a ragged exhalation and his thin, tortured body went slack._

_“NO! No, Philippe! Brother, you can’t leave me! You can’t die! Please, no!” Louis wailed in despair as he lost his balance and fell off the altar…_

The King snapped awake as he fell against the communion rail. Blinking in confused panic, he scrambled to his feet and turned his eyes to the crucifix above the altar. Not his brother… the usual carved and painted figure of Christ crucified. He realized he had fallen asleep at prayer, the long and wakeful night and two stressful days finally catching up with him in his moment of quiet in the dimly lit chapel. It had been a dream, a terrible, terrible dream. 

Louis fought to slow his racing heart. What a horrible nightmare. Was it an ill omen? Philippe was missing, yes, but by all accounts was still alive. But for how much longer? He remembered his brother’s sad and accusing eyes, his dying words… _“You have forsaken me.”_

No. He shook his head defiantly. He had not forsaken Philippe. He was trying to find him, to rescue him and bring him home. He was going to save his brother; he just wasn’t doing it the way the kidnappers wanted him to. His choices were completely justified. 

“Sire?”

Louis whirled at the surprise of hearing Bontemps behind him. “What?” he snapped.

His valet approached him cautiously. “Your Majesty, I heard you cry out. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Bontemps,” the King said quickly.

“Forgive me, Sire, but you’re weeping,” Bontemps pointed out with gentle concern. Louis started, and brought his hand to his face. There was wetness on his cheeks. He had not even realized that hot tears had been pouring from his eyes. 

Frustrated, he quickly swiped his sleeve across his face in a most unkingly gesture. No one could see this! Bad enough that Bontemps had witnessed his weakness, but at least he trusted his valet to be discreet. “I am not. You are mistaken. My eyes are tired and aching in this dim light. I am feeling quite fatigued, Bontemps. I think I will go to my chambers and rest for a time.” Inhaling shakily, he turned to exit the chapel, hoping that he had managed to wipe away any traces of his distress from his face. Just to be sure, he planned on using his private passageways as much as possible to return to his rooms. “See that I’m not disturbed. Not unless…” he trailed off. “No. No one is to disturb me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Louis's dream, Philippe paraphrases some of the last words of Christ from the Bible. He also references Cain and Abel from the Book of Genesis, which is a throwback to the argument the brothers had in Season 3, following the death of their biological father. Louis was so shaken by that quarrel that I thought I should call it out again here, giving him a feeling of responsibility for Philippe's fate, which he cannot admit.


	12. Chapter 12

Philippe had fought against his fatigue for hours, very unwilling to experience another nightmare featuring the most disturbing of his captors. Mathieu seemed stressed since their brief conversation, now sitting and trying to concentrate on his book, now pacing slowly around the room. Back and forth, back and forth. It was exhausting just watching him, and since Philippe was gagged, he wished the boy would at least say something. A one-sided conversation would be better than this tense silence that filled the room as Mathieu visibly wrestled with his conscience. It was like being at a very boring play that was many hours too long, where the actor didn’t know his lines, and the audience did know but was physically incapable of prompting him. 

From his spot on the mattress, to which he had returned and where was trying his latest attempt to focus on reading, Mathieu suddenly looked up. “I hear movement upstairs.”

After a couple of uneasy minutes, Etienne opened the door and entered the cellar. He took in the sight of Mathieu reclining back on the pallet with his small book and Philippe in his chair, still bound and gagged - everything was as he had left it, as he had instructed it to be. Mathieu looked up when he entered and sat up. “Brother?” he greeted Etienne, hesitantly. 

“Looks like you’ve followed my instructions well. I am glad to see it, Mathieu. Would you please take a few minutes to help Renard with the wagon outside. Make sure the horses are well fed, and get the last five barrels loaded up for tomorrow morning. I shall watch over Monsieur.”

Mathieu stood, and, with a lingering look first at Philippe, then at Etienne, reluctantly but obediently left the room. Philippe was beginning to feel fairly certain that his earlier talk with Mathieu was going to come to naught. _He said to trust him. But how can I trust that this boy will help me when he is so easily cowed by Etienne? Am I really so foolish to think that he would choose me over the brother he’s desperate to impress and prove himself to?_ Involuntarily, he felt himself wince. _This must be a standard 'little brother' problem._

He noticed that Etienne was studying him intently. Philippe wondered what was so noteworthy. He knew he was likely looking rough, since he felt exhausted and cramped from his confinement. It was very likely the toll was showing on his face. He wasn’t quite sure of the state of the bruise on his cheek, but it certainly felt more tender and swollen than it had last night. But he didn’t know what warranted this extended examination. He hoped Etienne wasn't looking at his gag and noticing the slight adjustment Mathieu had made to it, to make it a bit more bearable to wear. Unable to help himself, he gave Etienne a pointed look, as if to silently demand, “What?”

“I fear I have been remiss in my manners, Your Highness,” Etienne began, sounding very contrite and respectful. Philippe sat up as much as he could - his attention was caught by this new tone. “You are very weary; I can see it. This has undeniably been a trying ordeal for you, and I regret that I have not addressed it before now. I hope you will not hold this against me.” He paused to smirk at himself. “In addition to all the other things you’re holding against me. And since you must bear up in our company for a little while longer yet, I do not wish to impair your health by intentionally depriving you of sleep. I realize how uncomfortable we have made you, and I would offer you the opportunity to get some proper rest. If it pleases you, I can allow you to lie here on this mattress, such as it is, and perhaps relax more fully. You must remain bound, you understand, but I could make it less stringent, and remove the gag for your comfort, provided you keep quiet. But I would need to administer a dose of the same drug we gave you when we took you. For our safety and yours, I am not willing to risk your escape, and I would give you just enough to render that impossible. So you can either submit to being sedated and get some much-needed sleep, or you can remain as you are. I leave the choice up to you: would you like to take my offer? A simple nod ‘yes’ or ‘no’ will do.”

Philippe’s mind raced. His heart had leapt at the possibility of less restraint and a change of position, which would have been a relief on its own and might have been a chance to free himself, but had plummeted once more at the stipulation that he allow himself to be basically knocked out. _How will I be able to escape if I’m drugged? Mathieu certainly wouldn’t be able to drag my ass out of here on his own, and not with both Renard and Etienne here._ He wanted to curse Etienne for being so thorough, and Mathieu was not even present to give him any hint of whether he had come up with a plan or not, much less if it was workable under these new circumstances. There were too many variables, and if he was unconscious he could lose valuable time that might be better spent coming up with a concrete scheme to get away. As tired as he was, Philippe didn’t believe he could risk it. Wincing at the lost opportunity, he shook his head ‘no.’ 

“You are sure of your choice? Very well. If you think you can, try to rest while sitting like this for now. Soon enough, you will not have the choice.”

Philippe made a noise of confusion. Etienne smiled at him. “I suppose, for your peace of mind, I should explain the plans I have made for you. I already mentioned the possibility of your being sent abroad, and I do wish to be as honest with you as I can. Tomorrow morning, which is Friday, in case you were wondering, I will be returning to Versailles to check in with our man on the inside. I believe you’ll remember him; he was the attendant who served you wine just before we were introduced?” Philippe did indeed remember, and he glared at the reminder of that double-crossing Judas that was lurking in his brother’s palace. “Ah, I see by your expression that you know who I mean. He will tell me how the King has been progressing on our demands. Depending on his report, tomorrow evening we may be leaving this place, and journeying to the port of Le Havre under cover of darkness. When I say that you will not have a choice, it is because you _will_ be fully sedated for that journey, whenever we take it. When we arrive, we shall spend the remainder of Saturday in hiding and waiting for the King’s deadline to expire at midnight. If we have not received word that the King has met our demands when that deadline finally comes, you will be placed on a ship that is currently at port and set sail for the colonies. We already have the arrangements for your travel settled - it only remains to be seen if we make use of them. We would just have to make a few physical adjustments first.”

Philippe grunted questioningly, very concerned indeed. _Physical adjustments? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Just what do you think you’re going to ‘physically adjust’?_

“That’s unsettled you, hasn’t it? Well, no one must identify you as the Duc d’Orleans, so we will need to exchange your attire for something more… suitable for travel. More ‘rustic,’ shall we say? A haircut will also be in order…” Etienne smiled again as Philippe vehemently shook his head with muffled protests. “Now, now, no need to get upset. It’s not like anyone important will be looking at you. I do hope that by now you are accustomed to being tied up, because it will be necessary with your new identity to remain so. Though once you’re on board, we may be exchanging the ropes for iron shackles and chains. A criminal with such violent outbursts as yourself must be continuously restrained for the safety of those around him. I mean, you even have a proven tendency to bite! That’s why you’ll need to be kept gagged, as well. We can’t risk you taking a chunk out of anyone’s face, or biting off your own tongue accidentally, can we? Now, I do not know if you will be kept that way for the entire duration of the voyage. That would be quite tedious, I’m sure, and potentially dangerous if you’re the type to become seasick. But once we get you loaded up, it’s out of our hands. I don’t know the fate that would await you in the Americas, but I shall pray that it is a tolerable life for you.”

Philippe grew hot, then cold, then hot again with anxiety as the information settled over him. Despite his best intentions to conserve his energy and act submissive, he found himself cursing ineffectively at Etienne, who only watched him in amusement as he struggled against the ropes and mumbled in inarticulate fury. _How dare you plot like this against me! How dare you be so fucking condescending, you asshole! Cut off my hair? Over my dead body! You think I’m going to spend months at sea bound this way? I’ll show you ‘violent outbursts’… You had better pray that I don’t free myself. Fuck you, you fucking traitor!_ The fact that he could not tell this man exactly what he thought of him was infuriating, and it only made him want to curse more. 

Etienne shrugged and patted his shoulder, making him flinch away in disgust. “It’s probably a good thing for me that I can’t understand what you’re saying right now, because the tone of it doesn’t sound terribly flattering. Don’t worry overmuch, Your Highness. This is just a courtesy, providing you with information so that you may be prepared for what might lie ahead. I doubt that you will have to endure all that I have described. If the King comes through, which I’m sure he will, I am still committed to releasing you as I promised. We’ll leave you tied to a tree or something in some easy-to-find location and quietly alert the authorities. You would be found in a couple of hours, and safely bundled home, no worse for wear, and you'll not hear from us ever again. Your brother will not abandon you - in only a couple of days, you will see your family again. Have some faith. There’s no need to get so agitated.”

Philippe squeezed his eyes closed in frustration, and let out an angry growl. He had a terrible feeling that Louis was doing nothing in the way of planning a new edict for the Protestants. His brother might very well be using his resources to look for him, but as far as what Etienne and his cohorts actually wanted, there was no way the King would ever yield. So Philippe would have to escape before they left for Le Havre. If they drugged him, there’d be no chance to break away from them on the road. He had no idea what to expect if they made it all the way to the coast, but he doubted it would get easier from here. And if he was put aboard a ship, all bets were off. His fate would be sealed and he'd be as good as dead. Already, he felt himself growing nauseated from the idea of being on a choppy sea for months, in filthy, unsanitary conditions. 

His thoughts raged in agitation. He wasn't sure if God could even hear him at this point, so he steered his pleas to his loved ones. _Liselotte, I’m so sorry. I’m trying to get out of this, I really am. Louis, don’t you dare let them ship me off! I saved your ass a few months ago - do not let them do this to me! I will not survive it. Swallow your pride for once, if you love me at all. You had better fucking rescue me, I mean it! I want to go home... Lorraine… my love… will I ever see you again? How I need you right now. I am beginning to feel… so afraid…_

He began furtively twisting his tightly restricted wrists with renewed concentration, his fingers searching for the knots that secured his bonds. Philippe was determined to get out of this somehow, and he was officially running out of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The city of Le Havre, on the northern coast of France, was founded on 8 October 1517 ,as a new port by royal command of François I, partly to replace the historic harbours of Harfleur and Honfleur, which had become increasingly impractical due to silting-up. Le Havre affirmed its maritime and international calling during the 17th century: the Company of the Orient settled there in 1643. There were imports of exotic products from America (sugar, cotton, tobacco, coffee, and various spices). The slave trade enriched local traders especially in the 18th century. With 399 slave trade expeditions in the 17th and 18th centuries, Le Havre was the third largest French slave trade port after Nantes and La Rochelle.  
> I chose to use Le Havre since it is the closest of these three to Paris, and by extension, Versailles.


	13. Chapter 13

Fabien had joined Liselotte and the Chevalier in the Orleans suite after picking through the personal effects of Sebastien Donais. The man had not had much in the way of possessions in his quarters, outside of a small New Testament, an empty wine bottle under his bed, and an extra set of clothes suitable for working in kitchens. But Fabien had also painstakingly searched Donais’s body as well, and found a ring that appeared significant. It was not on his finger but hidden in an inner pocket, and it was a far richer trinket than a lower servant had a right to own. When he showed it to the Chevalier and the Princess Palatine, they had both recognized it immediately. Philippe’s favorite ring, a gift of love and commitment. The Chevalier had a similar one, just with a different stone, cut a slightly different way to better fit his finger. He confirmed the ownership by quoting the inscription on the inner band, which echoed the one on his own: “Mon âme, mon amant.” My soul, my lover. 

Fabien had silently handed him the ring. The Chevalier clutched it tightly, warming the cold jewel in his hands. He did not know why Donais had Philippe’s ring - maybe he was supposed to send it to the King as another token of proof, and simply had not been able to do so before he died. Maybe it was something he coveted and had nicked it when the prince was taken, or maybe the kidnappers let him have it as a payment or bribe for his help. But Donais was dead now, and could not answer the whys. The Chevalier would hold the ring in his possession until Philippe returned. He would return. This would not be the only thing he had left of his Mignonette. The Chevalier slipped it onto his finger, on the opposite hand from his own ring. It felt strange there, but it would only be temporary until it found its true home once more. He had to cling to that belief.

After a small evening repast together, Liselotte, utterly exhausted, had taken herself to bed, hoping that she might gain a few hours of sleep that might help her recover her vigor. She said the Chevalier and Fabien might stay as long as they liked, even sleeping in the suite if they so wished - though the Chevalier had his own rooms in the east wing, he spent so much more time in Philippe’s that they felt more like home. He also suspected that Liselotte felt safer knowing that there were two trustworthy men nearby. And so, they had remained in the sitting room for several hours, making conversation that by a courtier’s standards was stilted. It felt like ages of awkwardness before Fabien finally said something that truly caught the Chevalier’s interest.

“Have you heard from your niece?”

“My niece?” The Chevalier questioned, then realized Fabien meant his ‘niece,’ the erstwhile former Duchesse de Cassel, for that was the only such relation he had ever claimed at court. “You mean, Sophie? No, not for many months. I don’t know where she ran off to.” He did not know if Fabien knew that Sophie and her mother had not really been his relations, but he wasn’t going to bring that up now. They were both long gone, so it was not like it mattered anymore.

“The last I saw of her, she was headed to the Dutch border with Emperor Leopold’s niece. I was hoping you would know if they made it safely out of the country.”

The Chevalier arched an eyebrow. “You know far more than I. That she left with the Princess Eleanor is news to me. I was… going through some trials of my own when they disappeared, so I regret I did not give it much notice.”

“Ah, yes. Your affair with the Duchesse d’Angers, and...all that it entailed.”

“Ahem…yes. That.” 

“She was a Protestant, was she not? Very vocally opposed to the King’s actions?” It was a rhetorical question, for Fabien knew this to be the truth.

The Chevalier was growing uncomfortable with the topic. He grudgingly answered, “Delphine was boldly outspoken about her faith, yes. But she only wanted herself and her fellow Huguenots to be able to worship as they saw fit.”

“That’s what the Remnant is asking for now,” Fabien said pointedly.

“No, it isn’t!” The Chevalier snapped. “The Remnant is a group of terrorists! Delphine was an honorable woman. She would not attack anyone in order to manipulate the King, least of all Philippe. She would never have been associated with these traitorous villains!”

“You were in love with her?”

The Chevalier was struck silent by the question. After a short pause, wherein his mind was reeling to explain the whole thing, he sighed. “Yes, I suppose so,” he slowly admitted, feeling his defensiveness evaporate. It was hard for him to think about now, since it was a reminder of such a dark time between him and Philippe. Sometimes, even in this new chapter of their relationship, he found himself worrying about how Philippe had felt about being replaced with a woman. He had never mentioned it - Delphine was not something they discussed - but sometimes he got a certain look in his eyes, and the Chevalier noted it, and fretted about it. Philippe had shared a bed with women before - two, in fact! Out of husbandly duty, of course, and while there was a certain affection (more genuinely with Liselotte than Henriette, since the King was not a roadblock in this second marriage), he was not _in love_ with his wives. But still!

And since Philippe had been the one to spurn him in the first place, it shouldn’t have mattered, but it was a question that often nagged at him. It might have been because, whenever Philippe had had sexual dalliances, he had never professed love for his other mignons. Nor had the Chevalier with other men. Philippe had told the Chevalier he loved him. But the man he had been involved with since they were teenagers had stood by and witnessed the Chevalier declaring love for Delphine after only a few months, before he had ever said those same little words to the prince. Philippe never could hide the currents of feeling that always shone in his eyes. That moment had hurt - the Chevalier knew it, and he really didn't know how deep the wound went. He continued, “At the time, I was looking for comfort and security, and Delphine provided that for me. And, yes, an outlet for sexual satisfaction, as well. I had great affection for her, and I guess it did develop into a sort of love.”

“If you loved her, why did you not go with her when she fled the country?”

“I… I loved Philippe more.” The Chevalier’s tone became softer. “I don’t suppose you could understand. My relationship with Delphine was one born out of adversity and need. But we could not have been together happily in the long run. I would have grown bored with her, and she would have grown disappointed in me.” The Chevalier laughed sadly at himself. It was such a curious thing. Finally saying 'I love you' to Philippe had been the hardest thing he had ever done. But once he had done it, it became the easiest, and he wondered why he had waited such a long and foolish time to do it. “Have you ever loved someone with your entire being, Fabien? Loved them to the point of distraction, to where you live for the sight of them, and your heart sings at the thought of them? You might try to search for the same feeling from someone else, but you find only a pale copy of the real thing, like a painting. You can’t feel the sun’s warmth from a painting of it - that’s the difference. Delphine was a beautiful depiction of light breaking through the clouds, but Philippe is the sun itself.”

“Poetically said, Chevalier.”

“And I am aware of the irony of referring to the Sun King’s brother as 'the sun.' Don’t tell His Majesty,” the Chevalier answered, rolling his eyes in an effort to lighten the mood. The conversation was getting too real, and it was disconcerting to expose his vulnerable underbelly to the likes of Fabien Marchal.

“I won’t tell. And I do understand, better than you know,” Fabien said quietly. “About loving someone that way.”

“Really?” This was an interesting turn. The Chevalier’s curiosity was peaked. “Well, well, well! Aren't you a sly devil? Forgive me, it might just be the memory of the punch to the nose talking, but it’s hard for me to imagine Fabien, the Lover. Who is she? Would I know her?”

“She was Claudine Masson. The King’s physician.”

It took a moment for the Chevalier to check his memory, but then he placed the name to a face. “Oh! Yes, I remember her. I cannot say I knew her well, but she was indeed lovely. Clever, too. Well, wouldn’t that be a match made in heaven? You break the bones, she heals them.” The Chevalier chuckled. “Whatever became of her? I stopped seeing her around the palace, about the time the King was preparing to go to war, after he and Montespan lost their child.”

“She died in my arms.” 

The Chevalier’s smile fell from his face. “Oh, my. I’m so sorry, Fabien. I didn’t realize she had passed. God, I’m so very sorry.” Fabien’s sad, resigned half-smile made his heart nearly want to break in sympathy. _So he has known love, and he lost it. Poor bastard, I never would have thought. Oh, I’m terrible! Going on and on about love and saying he didn’t understand…_

“It was some time ago now, but the pain still lingers. To borrow your metaphor, she was like the sun to me,” Fabien went on. “The sweetness of the days I had with her were like a summer to my heart. When she looked at me, I felt young, and noble... and good. But then, my sun set. I would have married her. I would have had a family with her, and given up everything else, and gladly. Instead… I buried her.”

The Chevalier cast his eyes to the floor. Fabien held so much more pain than he ever realized. He was not simply the brutal, heartless killing machine that most people assumed he was. In another life, if the fates had ordered things differently, they might have been friends. As it was, the Chevalier felt a newfound respect and understanding for the police inspector. He dared to ask one more personal question of him. “Do you think you may ever find love again, after having something so pure?”

“I’m not sure I would even want to. As you said, I’ve found pale copies in the crowd… and I dare say, one of them was your niece, Sophie. Maybe she could have been more, but now she is gone, and I doubt I shall ever see her again.” Fabien shook his head. “Forgive me, Lorraine, but… if Monsieur does not safely return to us, would you be able to find love again? Would you seek out your Delphine and be able to start afresh? Even if it was only ever a copy of the real thing, would you be content?”

“...No...” The Chevalier whispered, his eyes growing bright and hot. There it was: Fabien forcing him to contemplate what would happen if they failed, if he lost Philippe permanently. “If he doesn’t survive this… I am not sure I will either.” He met Fabien’s searching eyes as he admitted his weakness. _At least you got to hold your love in your arms as she died. So she knew you were there with her and she did not die alone, poor thing. I may not even have that meager solace. The last time I saw him... I woke up before him, and kissed him before I left. He was still asleep. Did I tell him I loved him? When did he last hear it from me?_ All his brave intentions to care for Liselotte and the children were just that - intentions. The cruel reality of living with Philippe’s loss would be another matter, and the Chevalier did not believe he would be up to the task. While it might not be immediate, he felt that, if Philippe died, it would not be long before he followed him. He tried to continue. “I do not believe I am strong enough. I have come so close to losing him before, but we’ve always found our way back to each other. I cannot lose him now... forever. And not like this. I don't want the next time I see him to be...” He choked back his words. The thought was too unbearable.

“Then we must focus on finding him,” Fabien said, in a determined voice that he hoped would bolster the Chevalier’s spirit. Fabien felt as though both he and the blonde were on the verge of whiling the night away in a depressive alcoholic bender, if they were to continue in this vein. As easy as it would be do so (and maybe even pleasant to have company along the way as they numbed their memories and drowned out the future), Fabien knew that was not why he was here. This was not a time for maudlin sentiment; it was a time for proactive work. The King was counting on them, as was the Duc d'Orleans. “May I please look at those notes and the drawing again?”

The Chevalier stood up, steadying himself and his emotions, and went to retrieve the papers out of the pockets of his coat, which he had thrown upon one of the chairs. Fabien opened them all from their folds and began studying them intently. The Chevalier was not sure what the other man was looking for, and having that sketch of Philippe out in full view once more made him so tense, he felt the need to walk around to avoid having to look at it and re-experience all the things it made him feel. He took several turns about the room to try and clear his head from the highly unexpected, emotional conversation he had just had with the normally reticent Inspector Marchal. He began unconsciously nibbling on his fingernails. It was a terrible nervous habit leftover from boyhood, and it was an embarrassment to still be doing it. At court, the state of a man’s hands were a dead giveaway as to his status and breeding. He always made a great effort, as he did with his entire appearance, to keep his hands smooth and well-manicured; he certainly would never dare touch the King's brother with ragged fingers. While he was usually able to control the impulse, during times of great turmoil he would find himself chewing and tearing away at his nails. During his turn in prison, he had bit them to bloody nubs within the first hour.

“Look, here…” Fabien said suddenly, gesturing to the drawing. The Chevalier didn’t want to look at it again, but then realized that it wasn’t the image itself that had caught the other man’s interest. “This paper has depressions in it, as though someone was writing on another page on top of it and the pen pressed down through to the other side. You can almost make out what was written. You see?” He pointed to the page and the Chevalier squinted. While he could see the small indentations Fabien was talking about, possibly made through an extra layer of paper, he could not make any sort of understanding out of it.

Fabien saw his struggle. “Give me a pencil if you have one. Not ink - it will not come out as well.”

The Chevalier ducked into Philippe’s room, and briefly rummaged around in the mess on the prince’s desk until he found a nubby pencil that was used to reluctantly manage household accounts, though the lead was somewhat dull. “Will this do? The tip is not very fine.”

“It will not matter,” Fabien assured him, taking the pencil from his hand. 

“What are you going to do?”

“Watch and see. Hopefully, it will work as I wish it to.”

Fabien turned the drawing vertically and used the side of the pencil to lightly rub over what was now the blank margin at the top of the page. The Chevalier’s eyes widened as he saw faint but obvious words appearing as the lead highlighted the negative space. “That’s incredible! Where did you learn such a clever trick?”

“Years of police work, especially code-breaking. It’s also a quick and easy way to make a copy of something. Just a tool of the trade.”

“What does it say? ‘Receipt for Goods Delivered’… what the hell? That looks like a bill of sale… Oh my God!” The Chevalier’s eyes nearly popped out of his head and he snatched the paper away from Fabien. “Le Vraie Vigne? Someone wrote a receipt for Le Vraie Vigne from the same paper stack as this drawing?”

“What is Le Vraie Vigne?”

“The name of the vineyard that is providing the wines for the King’s fete tomorrow night. I nearly bought out their entire storehouse to make sure I had enough. They’ve made deliveries of barrels every day this week, including today.” The Chevalier’s voice was growing shrill, and his breathing was speeding up in perturbed astonishment. 

“Why so many deliveries?”

“The vintner is working with a limited crew. He can only transport a few barrels at a time with the men he has. The last batch is supposed to arrive tomorrow morning, just in time for the fete.”

“Le Vraie Vigne… ‘The True Vine.’ That is a Biblical reference, is it not?”

“I don’t know - I fear my knowledge of the Bible is somewhat limited,” the Chevalier admitted dismissively. He was not the most devout Catholic. Whenever he was at church, he was usually people-watching and judging their clothing choices. He did think the music was often nice, and he always admired the way Philippe looked in the colored light of a stained glass window; otherwise, he found Mass to be a waste of a Sunday morning. “I know the key moments of the thing, but I get lost on the details. But what does the Bible have to do with anything?”

“A Protestant resistance group who has already chosen a Biblical reference for their name might use such references elsewhere, as a subversive code for other like-minded individuals. Such as... for their cover operation?"

The Chevalier suddenly remembered. He went back to his coat and foraged through his pockets. He brought out a folded piece of parchment paper, not unlike the one that Fabien was examining. He unfolded it and scanned it. “Can you do that rubbing trick again to the bottom right corner? I have to make sure.”

Fabien obliged, and both men watched as the pale scribble became visible upon the page. “It appears to be a signature,” Fabien announced.

“Etienne Barrineau?”

“Yes, that may be it. It’s a bit of a scrawl, but the first name looks like Etienne, and the last definitely starts with B-A-R-R.”

“Compare it with this!” The Chevalier thrust the receipt at Fabien. Fabien placed the two pages side by side. The headers were the same. The signatures were the same. The paper was the same. “That’s the man who sold me the wine. He is behind this! How dare he - God damn that bastard! I will kill him if he’s hurt Philippe. By God, I will rip him apart!” The Chevalier started pacing once more. He was growing dizzy and sweating with adrenaline at the thought of what he would do to Etienne Barrineau when he next saw him. 

“Lorraine, you need to calm down. We must proceed carefully here. This is very damning evidence, but if we are wrong in this we will have lost valuable time. Do you know where this vineyard is?”

“The vineyard itself is somewhere in the Loire region, but the vintner claims to live locally. The storehouse is local, too. It would have to be, what with the frequency of the deliveries. But I don’t personally know where they are.”

“Then we need to inform his Majesty and Monsieur de la Reynie, and this Monsieur Barrineau needs to be brought in and questioned, preferably _before_ you rip him apart. We will need a surefire plan for that confrontation. We cannot risk that he will act as our Monsieur Donais did, and off himself rather than speak to us.”

“He is supposed to come in person early tomorrow with the last delivery, in order to collect his payment. It is a substantial sum and I said I would give it to none but him.”

“Then we shall be ready to meet him in the morning.” Fabien smiled grimly.

Hope kindled in the Chevalier’s heart. This was a lead. As angry as he was that he had apparently been doing business with the very people who had kidnapped his beloved, and possibly even been the reason they had access to him in the first place, the Chevalier realized this might be the break that they needed. If they had to torture this fellow to get answers, then so be it. He might even do it himself. _Now we have a chance! Hold on, Mignonette. We are going to bring you home soon. I swear it._

The clock chimed midnight. Forty-eight hours left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John 15:1 is the verse where Jesus states he is "the true vine." As far as translating from French to English, the actual French translation uses the phrase "la vraie cep," which appears to be more specifically a grapevine, related to wine, whereas "la vigne" is more of a general vine. For wine-marketing purposes, I just thought that Vraie Vigne looked like it flowed better, but for French speakers it might look funky. My apologies for that. I mean no offense with this artistic license of the language. Consider this similar to reading the MESSAGE translation of the Bible and comparing it to the King James. :/


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please bear with me; my grandmother has tested positive for COVID-19 and has steeply declined over the past few days. Hospice is caring for her since we cannot. At this point, I'm just waiting for the call. If chapters are a little slow in coming, that is why. Apologies.

When Mathieu returned after attending to his chores, he had a nervous look in his eyes. Once Etienne left the room again, allegedly to keep watch and allow Renard to take a turn sleeping, he approached and quietly spoke to Philippe in a low tremulous voice. “Listen carefully, Monsieur. I have done something that may or may not have been wise. Please understand that for your own sake, I cannot simply untie you and let you walk out of here. Right now, you’d never get past the front door, and you might wind up getting hurt. But I can try to alert outside help to come to you. I’ve hidden a message upon one of the wine barrels that Etienne will be delivering to Versailles tomorrow morning. He’s going to need several palace servants to help unload all the barrels from the wagon. I am hoping one of them will see it and go to the King with the information. If it works, then hopefully rescue will come soon after. I will submit to arrest, and imprisonment, and even sign a confession, if you will speak for me. Tell His Majesty that I made a terrible mistake in participating in this plot, and that I tried to do the right thing when I realized my error.” Amazed, Philippe nodded emphatically. He couldn’t believe it. While Etienne had been taunting him over what might be awaiting him on the morrow, the boy had already acted and he’d had no idea! Though there really had been no chance for Mathieu to explain his plans to him before now - he seemed to have acted in the moment. But Philippe’s heart swelled with hope at his initiative. _You dear lad, I will tell Louis whatever you wish if you deliver me out of this ridiculous situation!_

Mathieu seemed to understand. “I thank you, sir. However, if this does not work, then we will need to bide our time until we are supposed to move from here, which we might be doing tomorrow eve. I’m thinking of a fallback plan, of how to let you escape on the road. It may not be needed, if Etienne learns that the King is changing his policy as we wished, but I wanted you to know I am working on it. So have faith.” Philippe smiled as best he could behind his gag, and again nodded encouragingly.

Another uncomfortable sleepless night followed. Mathieu was obedient to the rules set down by his step-brother, but found excuses to let Philippe have one or two moments of respite from being gagged. They did not converse as they had the previous night, for fear that their voices might be overheard. 

As before, Etienne came in and spelled Mathieu in the wee hours of the morning. If his captor had wanted to get a further rise out of him then he would be sorely disappointed. To hopefully discourage any more condescending monologuing from Etienne, Philippe let his head droop, as though he was dozing. In reality, he was far too wound up to sleep, despite his exhaustion. His mind was wide awake. He was counting the minutes until his brother’s forces came to collect him, though he understood that wouldn’t happen for many hours yet. He did his best to control himself and conserve his energy until that glorious moment, and let his thoughts mull over what he would do to both Etienne and Renard when they were in custody. Mathieu would need a sentence, for appearances’ sake, but Philippe would keep his promise and have Louis mitigate the punishment. He truly would like to see the boy resume his artistic training and nurture his talent - if he could contribute something positive to the monarchy and receive royal favor and reward, he would not easily be drawn in by traitors ever again. Surely, Louis would be able to see that he was not a bad sort, just terribly naive and easily influenced by his strong loyalty to what Philippe had guessed was his only remaining family. 

At one point in that interminable night he heard movement - footsteps approaching him, pausing, then stepping away. Then the sound of the door creaking open and closing. Philippe put his acting to the test and slowly pretended to ‘wake up.’ No one was in the room with him. He even tried to crane his neck to see behind him but his first impression was correct. Had Etienne really left him alone? He must have needed a piss or something. He had to have assumed Philippe to be asleep, and been quite confident in the bondage that held the prince, if he felt he could leave him unguarded now, even if just for a moment.

Philippe stretched, wincing as his neck cracked, and twisted his hands to try and keep the numbness at bay. To his surprise, his earlier struggles must have made more progress than he realized, for he felt one of the loops around his wrists slip away. His heart began to pound. _Oh my God. I must have moved just the right way, at last. Yes! Good! Come on, keep going… just keep going._ All thoughts of Mathieu and his possible plans for escape evaporated as Philippe seized this chance. He wiggled experimentally and soon was able to drag his right hand out of the rest of its coils, separating it from the left, where the now-useless ropes remained wrapped around his wrist like a bracelet. He planned to hold them there for now. That way, just in case someone walked in, he could slide them back on his hands and act as though nothing was amiss. _Thanks be to God, I’ve done it! Or I’ve almost done it._ There was the small matter of his upper arms still being fastened together, not to mention being pinned to the chair itself, but Philippe decided to focus on this little victory. He was practically giddy with relief. His limbs ached from the strain they had been under for so long, and his wrists felt like they were burning from the friction of constant twisting within the ropes, which had slowly but steadily moved the fabric of his shirt cuffs aside and rubbed against his bare skin. And he was not yet in a position to attempt an escape. But his hands were basically free. He would give himself just a quick moment to rest and let the feeling return to his fingers before resuming his efforts on the rest of the bindings. 

But suddenly, he heard the door to the cellar begin to open again. Quickly, he pulled the loose ropes back around his hands. From the limp way the restraints felt, he guessed he had made sloppy work of it, so he just held his wrists together within them as closely as he could and prayed that, if it was not Mathieu entering the room, then whoever it was would believe he was still bound and not bother to check the matter too carefully.

“Ah, you are awake, Your Highness,” Etienne greeted him pleasantly when he came in. _So I did fool him into thinking I was asleep for a while,_ Philippe thought. He could see that Etienne had brought the water flask and some bread with him _._ But instead of being a welcome relief, it made Philippe apprehensive. All his work might be for nothing if Etienne got too close and noticed he had partially freed himself. Could he signal refusal of food and water and not make his kidnapper suspicious? “I truly hope your nap was restful. I had to make sure Renard and Mathieu were awake so that they could prepare the wagon for my final visit to Versailles. I will need to leave by sunrise, so it’s an early morning for all of us.”

Philippe’s whole body tightened as Etienne approached him. “I thought I would make sure you had some water before I left. You’ve done well up until now, but I imagine your mouth is getting dry. After he hitches up the horses, Mathieu will be along to guard you once more, but he knows my instructions are the same; no conversations for any reason. So if you’ve anything to say, now is your chance.” Etienne stepped over to take the gag from Philippe’s mouth, but he paused in silence. Philippe could not see his face since he was standing just behind him. He held his breath. _Don’t look at my hands. Don’t look at my hands. Don’t look… don’t look!_

“Bravo, Monsieur,” came Etienne’s tight voice in his ear. _SHIT._ He had seen. “Aren’t you clever? You’ve managed to get your hands untied, haven’t you? And it only took you, what? Two days? I’m afraid that was not time well spent, since we can’t have this, now can we?” As the prince moaned in frustration, Etienne swiftly re-tied his stinging wrists, yanking the ropes tighter than before and arranging the knots so that they would be more difficult to reach and unravel. Then, in an aggressive manner that belied his almost patronizing tone, he took the ropes at Philippe’s elbows and tightened those further as well. Philippe yelped as his upper arms were drawn closer together, making his elbows touch, even just barely, at last. Discomfort quickly stepped over the line into actual pain. _Ow, fuck! Shit, shit, shit! This hurts. Ugh, why is this man such a shit human being? Ow, I didn’t know my body could do this…_ Philippe feared his shoulders would pop out of their sockets from the unfamiliar tension.

Once his arms had been completely secured, Etienne then tightened the rope binding Philippe to the chair, again to the point of pain. “Your Highness, you knew what the expectations were. But you still felt the need to be difficult, and now I’ve had to hurt you. I really didn’t want to resort to that,” Etienne muttered sternly as he tied the bonds that pinned the prince down. Coming around to face Philippe, who was breathing hard with the new, sudden strain on his limbs and ribs, he glared at his captive. “Tell me, what will it take for you to just cooperate and patiently wait for us to release you? We didn’t _have_ to confine you this way, you know. We have tried to show you as much respect as we can, as befits a man of your station. You brought this upon yourself by being disobedient. Is the increased inconvenience you’re currently experiencing really worth it?” 

Etienne got a sudden look of inspiration on his face, and Philippe didn’t like what that look might portend. “Maybe what you need is some more familiar company. I could provide that for you. What about your dear friend, the Chevalier de Lorraine? I know he’s very anxious to see you again. I think he’d be as easy to abduct as you were. Maybe even more so - after all, you would make excellent bait.” Philippe stilled, and his eyes went wide. Etienne smiled at his reaction as the weight of the words struck the prince to the bone. “I know what you are to each other. Does that notion appeal to you - having him here, tied up and gagged next to you? If you were to get out of line again, he could bear the consequences for you, as a good and loyal ‘friend’ should. It might make you a little more biddable, knowing that your foolish actions might directly impact someone else. Someone important to you. And, since you are forbidden territory, I’m sure Renard wouldn’t mind taking out all of his frustrations on your Chevalier. He is a very _frustrated_ man.” 

Philippe felt himself grow dizzy at the threat. Threatening to kidnap his lover was bad enough. But Etienne wasn’t seriously suggesting he sit by and watch helplessly while the Chevalier was…?

 _No… not that! He can't truly mean it._ He mumbled desperately for Etienne to stop, but his captor wasn’t done with his despicable suggestions. “You don’t like that idea? Would you rather have your wife with you? Truth be told, I’m extremely hesitant to involve a lady of her status in this ugly business; she would be a bit harder to gain access to, and kidnapping is not a very chivalrous pastime. And as I said, Renard is a _very_ frustrated man. But if that’s what it will take…” Philippe began vehemently shaking his head, overcoming his shock to protest physically and vocally. _He’s threatening my family… he’s actually threatening to attack the people I love._

Etienne crinkled his brow and acted as though he was working terribly hard to decipher Philippe’s muffled objections. “What did you say? You don’t wish to have a companion in your captivity? Well, then, I suppose you will have to be on your best behavior from this point forward, won’t you?” Blinking back the unexpected tears that made his vision blur, Philippe nodded in despair. 

“Do not think for one moment that I wouldn’t do what I’ve described, Your Highness,” Etienne said quietly, dropping his mocking tone and speaking without a hint of emotion. “If you even think about escaping, just remember: we are still here. We are but a small part of a larger whole. You would never be free of us. We want to do this cleanly and quickly, with no one getting hurt. If you ruin that, then we _will_ escalate our actions further. Who would you be willing to sacrifice? Your lover? Your wife? Your children?” 

Philippe closed his eyes - he was truly starting to feel ill. As disgusting as Renard was, Etienne was beginning to frighten him more. His temper could turn so quickly, and while he was not loud with anger or truly violent, his cold, calculating threats were slowly eating away at Philippe’s spirit. At least Renard had only threatened to fuck him and touched him inappropriately; what Etienne was doing felt far worse. He didn’t want either of them, but at least Renard’s actions were directed towards him and him alone. He couldn’t bear the thought of his family being dragged into this mess - and that did include his Chevalier. He’d never forgive himself if that happened.

Mathieu chose that moment to enter, and looked astonished at Etienne leaning intimidatingly towards the distressed-looking captive. “What’s going on?”

“His Highness slipped some of his bonds, and needed some help being re-secured,” Etienne said, not taking his eyes from Philippe’s pale face.

“He looks like he’s hurting.”

“Yes, he does.”

Mathieu, frowning at how tortured the Duc d’Orleans appeared and obviously remembering his earlier breakdown, tried to push his step-brother toward sympathy. “Etienne, he looks like he might faint - I don’t think he can breathe very well. Don’t you think you’ve overdone it a bit?”

“No, I don’t,” Etienne said curtly, finally snapping his eyes to his younger sibling. “I know you didn’t have anything to do with this escape attempt, little brother. He did this on his own. However, I know you have a soft heart, and while I’ve always found your nature endearing, I won’t have you taking pity on him.” Etienne stepped to the door and called out. “Renard?”

 _Oh, God, no…_ Philippe breathed with difficulty. _Not him. Not him. Why do you want him? Don’t bring him in here, please!_

The doorway was soon filled with Renard’s presence. He skulked inside the cellar, eyeing both the younger man and the Duc d’Orleans with suspicion and hostility. Mathieu looked alarmed, and Philippe felt faint. “What?” he asked, obviously grouchy, and apparently only recently roused from sleep.

“Renard, this morning you are still remaining here, but I will need for you to stay down in this room with Mathieu and Monsieur.” Renard began to smile at these new instructions. “But,” Etienne continued sternly. “You are not to lay a hand on the prisoner. Say whatever you like to him; your words do not concern me. But you _will_ keep your hands to yourself, unless he somehow is on the verge of escaping. You've already bruised his face; I don't want to return and find him further damaged. Understand?”

“I hear you,” Renard answered flippantly, but his eyes were on Philippe, who tried to shift uncomfortably in his chair as cold sweat began to prickle on his neck. He started to worry that he actually might be close to fainting.

Etienne grabbed the flask and the bread from the table. “I should return by noon, with our funds and an idea of what steps to take next. Stay in the cellar, both of you. No water or food for the prisoner until I return. There is no reason that gag should be removed.” Meeting Philippe's eyes, he said quietly, “I’ve warned you, Monsieur. Give him a reason to touch you.” There was no confusion about what he meant.

Mathieu tried one last time to give his voice to Philippe's suffering, knowing that the addition of Renard to the situation was making the prince feel much worse. “Etienne, listen! Please-”

“Enough, Mathieu!” Etienne finally snapped, and Philippe could see Mathieu flinch at the reprimand. “Remember your place, and remember his. You are too fooled by his rank and reputation. He is not a helpless little kitten left out in the cold - he is a soldier! Don’t you recall drugging him so he couldn’t fight back? Because mark my words, he would have. Were he free right now he would not hesitate to kill you for your part in this plot. Both he and the King would see us all hanged for treason. Use your head, boy, or you shall lose it!” Mathieu shrank from his brother. Etienne sighed, and clutched at the younger man’s shoulder. Philippe thought he was about to apologize for his outburst, but instead, Etienne sharply pulled Mathieu towards him, twisting his shirt collar in a tight fist, and growled in his ear. “I am ready for you to start proving yourself a man, Mathieu. I shall be most disappointed in you if you allow everything I’ve worked for to fall apart now. Don’t make me regret trusting you in this matter.” 

Releasing Mathieu, who stumbled backwards, red-faced from embarrassment, Etienne took his leave without another word, dragging the cellar door closed behind him.

“Well, lads. Isn’t this cozy?” Renard muttered. He walked over to the sparsely-filled wine racks and pulled down one of the few bottles that were left. Bringing it over to the table, he used his knife to pry out the cork. He took a swig as he eyed Philippe with a greedy look. “I feel like I've been missing out on all the fun, stuck up there in the front parlor. It's nice to have some company again. I’m glad to see you’ve finally been bound appropriately, Your Highness,” he sneered. “If I’d had my way, it would have been so from the start. Bet it pinches a bit, doesn’t it?”

“Sit down, Renard,” Mathieu barked, still smarting from being treated like a child in front of the other two men. “And it’s a bit early to be drinking, isn’t it? The sun’s just barely up.”

“No one asked you, boy. If I have to play governess to the two of you, I plan on enjoying myself. Unless you have any other suggestions of what I can do to occupy my time, the wine is my current choice. Though not my first choice…” Renard winked at Philippe, who refused to make eye contact. "In the meantime, I shall just enjoy the view."

Philippe took as deep a breath as he could with his constricted chest. Mathieu mustered a small, reassuring smile for him, as if to say, _All will be well,_ but his eyes were worried, which didn’t fill Philippe with much confidence. He thought the boy had a right to be concerned. It would be hours yet before there was any chance of someone finding the message Mathieu hid in the wagon, and possibly more hours until help arrived... if it arrived at all. Renard might be dissuaded from acting on his baser impulses with his young comrade present, but what if he was not? Mathieu would not be physically capable of stopping him. Renard obviously still had his cruel-looking knife. Did Mathieu still have his pistol? _Even if he is still armed, I don’t know how adept he is at shooting,_ Philippe thought. _He seems like a non-violent sort. Would he have it in him to shoot Renard if he attacked either of us? And if he did, then what?_ The only thing Philippe knew for certain was this: if Mathieu did have to shoot Renard for defensive purposes, it would need to be a kill shot, for a man like Renard would not allow for a second attempt.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, my grandmother passed away the same night I posted the last chapter (I didn't find out until early the next morning), so it has taken me some time to get this one off the ground. I'm still doing a lot of processing, but I'm working on it. Bear with me, and thank you for reading.

It was nearing ten in the morning, when the wagon marked with the trademark insignia of Le Vraie Vigne slowly rolled into the courtyard of Versailles used for service matters. The Chevalier was waiting to receive Monsieur Barrineau, along with a row of about a dozen kitchen workers to aid in quickly unloading the wagon’s bounty. A few other men were unloading various goods and produce in the yard, but otherwise, the number of people was unusually minimal for the morning’s hour. 

Etienne stepped down from the wagon and greeted his patron with an easy smile. “Good morning, Chevalier. A fine day for a royal fete! I trust you have my payment?”

“Naturally, Monsieur. Here it is, as promised - you can count it out, if you wish.” The Chevalier handed Etienne the small velvet purse containing a fine sum of livres. It jingled as it changed hands.

Feeling the weight of the coins and finding it satisfactory, Etienne shook his head dismissively. “That will not be necessary. If these servants will oblige me one last time, I’ll just have these barrels unloaded and then be on my way again. You have already been more than patient with me and I would not keep you overlong. I know there is much to do before tonight’s soiree.” 

“Yes, I do have a lot of things occupying my mind,” the Chevalier answered with a distracted air. He was sure that his fatigue and worry were evident in his face, which one could possibly attribute to the stress of party-planning, but he hoped that his nonchalance masked the white-hot hatred that was bubbling a little too closely beneath the surface. Not an easy task, since nothing would have given him more pleasure at that moment than to physically tear the skin off this smug villain’s face. _All in good time,_ he reminded himself. _Think of Philippe - he is all that matters right now. “_ I did have one quick question regarding the document your man gave me yesterday. I have perused it and would be grateful for your clarification on a very small detail. Would you mind looking over the receipt one more time, Monsieur?” the Chevalier asked evenly. 

“I suppose so,” Etienne sighed. He seemed ready to unload his wares and depart but he did not appear overly anxious at the delay.

The Chevalier reached into his pocket and handed him the folded paper. Etienne opened it, and gazed at it silently for a long moment. There was no outward change to his expression.

“What is this?” he finally asked. He held out the paper in his hands, which was not a business receipt but the drawing of the captive Duc d’Orleans. The rubbings that Fabien had done were still visible.

The Chevalier looked at the paper with innocent, wide eyes. “Oh, my. How foolish of me. I must have grabbed the wrong one.” He made a production of fumbling in his other coat pocket and pulled out the proper paper. “Ah, here it is - how embarrassing! You’ll forgive my error, sir. But it’s understandable; the papers do look so similar.” The Chevalier studied Etienne’s face, which still appeared expressionless, in spite of that subtle hint. “Monsieur Barrineau, you don’t look as surprised as I would have expected to find such a work of art in your hand.”

“Well, it is not my place to judge another man’s… recreational interests. But I assure you, sir, I am astonished.”

“I certainly understand that feeling,” the Chevalier said with a flat chuckle. “I was astonished myself to receive this, especially after discovering that your signatures and the name of your business were imprinted on the page. That is the question I had needed clarification on - why does my little gift have evidence of your hand upon it?”

“I don’t understand your meaning, sir. I did not draw this.”

“Oh, of course not. I am certainly not suggesting that you drew it - anyone could tell from your choice of attire that you do not have a creative spirit,” the Chevalier added quickly under his breath. “But I think you know who did, since they clearly used some of your paper supply. And therefore, it stands to reason that you know who the model is. And where he is.”

“This is absurd," Etienne said, rolling his eyes. "I’m a busy man, Chevalier, and I assumed you were, too. I have no time to play games centered around whatever fetishes you enjoy in your private hours. Or your public ones, for that matter. I’m here to deliver your wine that you have paid for, and I took great pains to make sure you received your order in time. Do you want it or not?”

“We’ll see to the wine momentarily. In the meantime, my associates would like to ask you a few questions.”

“What associates?” Etienne questioned, his eyebrow arching, but still maintaining a calm demeanor. “Business associates?” He saw one of the other men in the yard, who had been unloading baskets of fruit, had set down his burden and had made his way unnoticed until he was nearly at Etienne’s elbow. 

“Not quite, Monsieur,” the man answered. The Chevalier stood glaring at Etienne with a look harder than stone as he allowed the new arrival to take over speaking. “I am Inspector de la Reynie of the Paris police. I’m afraid you will need to answer some questions before we send you on your way.”

Etienne eyed the man, taking in his humble attire and giving him a doubtful look, as though he didn’t quite believe the man was really part of the police. “Am I being charged with something… Inspector?”

“If you must know, at this time you are suspected of kidnapping and extortion.”

“You have no grounds to accuse me of any such thing,” Etienne answered with a smile, which nearly sent the Chevalier into a fit of fury. _He has the audacity to smile at these accusations! The bastard. Give me five minutes alone with him and I’ll knock that sick smile off his face, along with half his teeth!_ It took every molecule of self control he possessed to keep his tongue and his body in check.

Luckily, Monsieur de la Reynie was clearer-headed. “Well, you see, Monsieur Barrineau, we do have grounds. In addition to the surprising evidence of the imprint of your own hand on part of a ransom demand we received, we also have testimony of a young man in the employ of His Majesty the King. One Sebastien Donais. When questioned, he was very forthcoming about his association with you. So you see, sir, you have already been betrayed. You have been named in a conspiracy against His Majesty and the royal family.” The Chevalier was impressed with Monsieur de la Reynie’s bluff. He could only pray that Barrineau would believe that Donais had implicated him. The truth of the man’s death would be withheld until it served a purpose. 

Etienne arched a brow and the Chevalier would swear he saw the man’s countenance falter just a bit. The vintner looked behind him and saw that the servants that had begun to surround him were, in fact, members of the King’s Guard. They, too, had adopted the simple homespun of peasants’ attire so as not to alert Etienne of their presence and possibly give him an opportunity to flee before they had had a chance to confront him. But their identities were plain now, as each man showed their pistols to discourage his resistance. 

“Very well,” Etienne conceded, pasting the smirk back upon his face, though the Chevalier wanted to believe it was a bit smaller than before. He held out his arms to indicate he was weaponless, and willing to acknowledge that he was outmatched and outnumbered. “Let’s talk about these questions you have. Though I don’t think you’ll get the answers that you hope for.”

“We’ll be the judge of that. This way, sir.” Monsieur de la Reynie motioned for the guards surrounding Etienne to herd him into the palace. He would be questioned in an out-of-the-way chamber for as long as it took to get answers about the Duc d’Orleans. If sterner methods were needed, the plan was to quietly transfer him to the local prison during the King’s fete, where those methods could be administered in private. 

The Chevalier exhaled heavily as Etienne was led away. He felt his anger dissipating and leaving him almost dizzy. He should probably go eat something. Breakfast had been nonexistent as he and the police had prepared for their encounter with the man who had kidnapped his lover, and at the time, his outrage was enough to fuel him. 

He had resisted the idea of confronting Barrineau this way, and had tried to convince de la Reynie and Marchal that it would be easier to just follow the man back to wherever he was staying. The other men had discouraged that idea as being too fraught with uncertainty - there was no guarantee that Philippe was being held in the same place that Barrineau had come from, or that he would visit that location personally at all. Then they would still have had to detain Barrineau first in order to determine where Philippe was. There was also the difficulty of trying to track him discreetly on the King’s Road, which would be heavily trafficked around the palace on a normal day, but even more so on a day when a great event was supposed to take place at Versailles. If Barrineau suspected he was being followed, he could lead them on a merry chase all over the region, and they would be none the wiser until it was too late.

It was all terribly complicated, and the Chevalier hated that. He just wanted his Mignonette safely in his arms once more, and for all this intrigue and fear to go away. Was it really so much to ask that all of this just be over already?

“Lorraine?”

The Chevalier was startled out of his thoughts by Fabien, who had approached him quietly during his reverie. Marchal was also dressed humbly, and had been acting as a merchant unloading wares alongside Monsieur de la Reynie. 

“Forgive me, Fabien. I was just thinking…”

“I’ve ordered the wagon to be unloaded so that the barrels might be tested.” Fabien had thought of the possibility that Etienne’s plan might include an assassination attempt upon the entire court of Versailles, hence his willingness to provide an amount of wine suitable for a royal soiree. The King and his immediate household had tasters, of course, but there were not enough willing people in the entire kingdom to test the individual cups of every noble. The Chevalier had lost a lot of sleep over the idea that he had possibly purchased multiple barrels of poison, and the poor man had not really been sleeping to begin with. Fabien had tested the previously delivered barrels, and surprisingly they had been safe for consumption. But these latest arrivals needed to be examined as well - it could only take one small oversight to lead to people being murdered. 

“Good,” the Chevalier managed to answer. “If any are poisoned, then we will know in plenty of time and have more evidence to use against Barrineau.”

“You did well,” Fabien said, giving a rare compliment. He thought the blonde could use some bucking up. “I know how difficult it was to keep calm as you spoke to him. I doubt our Monsieur Barrineau knows how close he just came to being able to see the inside of his own ass." That earned a chuckled from the Chevalier, which in itself was amazing. _Who would have thought Fabien Marchal would say something funny? God, I must be tired._ "Now why don’t you go and eat something," Fabien continued, "and try to get some rest? You look as though someone has squeezed the air out of you. I promise I will alert you if we receive any information from our interrogation.”

The Chevalier smiled weakly. “I am a bit peckish. A snack would not be amiss, though I do not think any rest will come to me until Philippe is safely home.”

“Nevertheless, you should try. You will do Monsieur no good by running yourself into the ground with worry.”

“Then I will try, for his sake, but first I’ll make sure these barrels-”

“Sir!” 

Fabien and the Chevalier turned at the interruption. An out-of-breath supervisor of the kitchens came running towards them, looking perplexed.

“Forgive me, sir, but as we were unloading the wagon, we found this,” he said, holding out a scrap of paper. “It was jammed beneath one of the barrels. Look - it says to alert the King.” Fabien took the paper, and he and the Chevalier quickly scanned it.

_Whoever sees this message - Alert the King!_

_Follow King’s Road to the south 8 miles, turn left at the fork. Cross the bridge, then turn right onto the path 2 miles later._ _At the end of the path there is a maison with two large oak trees in front._

_The Duc d’Orleans is there; he needs help. Hurry - he will be taken by nightfall._

The kitchen servant was wide-eyed with curiosity; though the palace at large knew nothing about the prince’s abduction, rumors had begun about his seeming disappearance, and such rumors knew no class boundaries. But this surprising note he had found made him question the other men, “Is Monsieur alright? What does it mean - ‘he will be taken by nightfall’?” 

Fabien abruptly turned to him. “Do not speak of this to anyone! Go on about your business as though you have seen nothing. I will ensure you are rewarded, for this discovery and for your silence, but if you wag your tongue, you may lose it. And I WILL know if you speak. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes, sir!” The servant scampered back to his companions with the barrels, with the fear of God and Fabien Marchal now quaking in his belly. He would keep his secret.

The Chevalier, meanwhile, had gone pale. He held this new message in a vice-like grip. ‘ _The Duc d’Orleans is there; he needs help.’ What does this mean? Is it just a hint to his location or does it mean that he has been harmed? ‘Taken by nightfall?’ Taken where? What more are they going to do to him?_

“The writing is different from that of the ransom notes,” Fabien murmured, studying the scrap. “It is not addressed directly to the King, and it lacks the formality of the other messages. And this one does not style itself as speaking for the Remnant as a whole. But the paper is the same.” 

“Perhaps Barrineau intended for Donais to deliver it, as before?” the Chevalier questioned in a dazed whisper. _Taken by nightfall… he needs help..._

“Deliver it to whom? And if it was for Donais, why put it in the wagon where anyone else might have come across it as the barrels were being unloaded? I am not as familiar with him as you are, but this Monsieur Barrineau seems like a man who enjoys being in control, or at least appearing to be. He could not have known Donais wouldn’t be present, so you would think he would have this message on his person so he could slip it to him discreetly, and upon not seeing him, he would not risk leaving it behind for anyone else to find.”

“Could this be a trap?” 

“It could be. But for whom? Why would they set up a trap when they had the high ground? Why would they try to lure us somewhere before the deadline expires?”

“What do you think we should do?” the Chevalier asked, his heart starting to pound. He began to shake off his shock. “We can’t simply ignore this - it could be a real chance to find Philippe and rescue him. And the message implies urgency - wherever he is, he won’t be there after today.” 

“I think it wise to do as it says and alert the King. I think it bears investigating and will tell him so, but he must be informed. This is his brother we’re talking about; he may have instructions on how he wants to proceed before I or anyone else ventures to check on it …”

“Then do that. Go to the King, and I will have horses made ready. We can leave as soon as you return.” The Chevalier spoke quickly, feeling a surge of energy. This was the moment he had been praying for. He now knew where to go - he would bring back his love. Fabien could handle the arrests, but he would spirit Philippe away, safely home again...

“His Majesty will probably want me to take guards.”

The Chevalier blinked at him. “Of course. Then we will take them,” he affirmed, wondering why the other man wasn’t champing at the bit to get moving. 

“You keep saying ‘we.’”

“Of course I keep saying it!” The Chevalier snapped, growing frustrated. What on earth was the problem? Why was Fabien being so obtuse? “‘We’ is inclusive: you and me, and whoever else the King wants on this mission. Whether that’s a handful of soldiers or an entire regiment, I don’t know - I'll leave that up to His Majesty. But I’m certainly going with you.”

“That’s probably unwise.”

“Unwise?” the blonde sputtered, feeling insulted. “Why is it unwise?”

“I do not think you will be able to handle the situation if things get ugly.”

“I won’t be able to _handle_ it?” Now he was truly offended. “And just why would I be so incapable of ‘handling the situation?’”

“You’re tired, you’re not thinking clearly. You haven’t had any food-”

“Then I’ll eat some fucking grapes before we go!” the Chevalier growled, carefully articulating each word in annoyance. 

“I worry that if things get out of hand, your judgment may be impaired-” Fabien tried to explain.

Once again, the Chevalier interrupted, all but shouting in indignation, “I don’t care! I am not the coward everyone believes me to be. I’ve been in battle before, for God’s sake. If there’s any chance this message might lead us to Philippe, I’m going to seize it! I’m following these directions to wherever they may lead me, and I’ll do it with or without you, sir!” He started to stomp away, belatedly realizing that he might seem childish and that might not be a point in his favor, but Fabien grasped his arm and pulled him up short.

“Lorraine, I do not think you are a coward - that is not my meaning. My concern is that you may be too close to this emotionally. If you go, you need to be prepared for what we may find. We know Philippe’s been restrained, and may still be, and he’s likely being guarded, by who knows how many people; that’s the least we can expect. But we need to be ready to act if he is hurt, or ill, or worse. Can you handle those possibilities, and still do what must be done? For Philippe’s sake?”

“I can. I know I can,” the Chevalier pleaded, his blue eyes lit with desperation. He had to make Marchal understand how important this was to him! “You don’t need to worry - I will not bring trouble to anyone. The last thing I would ever do is put Philippe in danger. If you must leave me out of the actual rescue once you see the situation with your own eyes, I understand, and I will yield to your advice. I will stay out of your way… but I need to be with Philippe. He’ll need me once the danger is past. He needs me…” The Chevalier trailed off, his voice choking. _And I need him. I need to see him safe. I cannot rest until I know he’s out of danger. You can’t make me wait, Fabien, not when we’re this close, or I’ll go mad._ “I must bring him home, Fabien. And I will. Or die trying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The kitchens at Versailles were actually seperate from the Palace itself. Because they had to work essentially non-stop to provide food for the entire court, they were not in the main building in order to spare the courtiers from smells and other disruptions. It also meant that, due to the amount of time it took to get the meals from the kitchens to the king's plate, a lot of the food was usually served cold.  
> Having not been to Versailles myself, I have no idea what area the kitchens were located in, but I am working on the assumption that there was a royal pantry and wine cellar near them, to store ingredients until they were needed, and that 'groceries' would be delivered to that area of the grounds, rather than to the Palace proper.


	16. Chapter 16

The bowels of Versailles were stuffy, silent, and cramped. Louis had paced around outside for nearly half an hour while Monsieur de la Reynie attempted to question the accused. He could not hear what was happening from the corridor, but it was important to wait for the right moment to make himself known.

Finally, though he had no idea how long he had been lurking outside, he could wait no longer, and decided the moment was now. He entered the small, windowless room they had claimed as the detainment area. It was only large enough to hold a small table, upon which lay the ransom notes and the infamous drawing, and a chair in which the man who was responsible for all of this misery sat.

The accused raised his head when the King came through the door. He seemed pleasantly surprised, as though it was an unusual but not unheard of pleasure for the Sun King to pop in while one was being interrogated for treason. “Your Majesty. This is indeed an honor, Sire,” Etienne said, bowing his head, though he did not stand, a slight that Louis knew was intentional, despite the tight quarters. He chose not to address it.

“You are Etienne Barrineau?” the King asked, with a stiff and authoritative manner.

“I am, Sire.”

"You know why you are here?"

"Yes, Sire. Your most excellent Inspector de la Reynie informed me," Etienne said, disdainfully indicating said gentleman, who stood to the side, out of the King's way. De la Reynie curled his lip at the disrespect, but said nothing. This was the King's time.

“Do you know what this paper is?” Louis held out an official-looking document, objectively the worst thing he had written since his days as a newly-breeched youngster in the schoolroom, copying Latin sentences in a wobbly, childish scrawl. It had been the result of a very long and sleepless night, haunted by the weight of his nightmarish visions of Philippe’s death.

“No, Sire, I cannot say that I do. This morning, it seems I keep assuming what papers are, and find myself being surprised at my inaccuracy,” Etienne chuckled. Louis kept his countenance grave.

“I have written a law that restores the rights granted to the Huguenots by the Edict of Nantes, which I had revoked earlier this year. It is here, in my hand - it awaits only my signature and seal to make it the official royal policy regarding French Protestantism. If you understand the charges that have been brought against you, then you know what this document means. I ask you to answer me truthfully, and swear upon the Lord's name. Are you the man who has taken my brother?”

Without hesitation, Etienne nodded. “By the blood of our Lord, I am he, Your Majesty.”

“You admit it?” It seemed too easy; Barrineau was willing to profess his guilt? Was it out of confidence in his victory? Or did he believe that Donais had confessed everything, according to the bluff he knew Marchal and de la Reynie had cooked up?

“I think I must admit it now, if I must swear before God. I am no one; you would not accuse me without good reason. I have been implicated, and my own hand inadvertently betrayed me with the messages I sent you. And I have no reason to lie - I am not ashamed of what I have done. My conscience is clear.”

Louis could barely believe his ears. The arrogance of this Etienne Barrineau astounded him. It gave him reason to doubt; perhaps the man misguidedly thought that readily confessing to the charges would make things go easier for him. Perhaps he didn't understand that this would mean a death sentence, not freedom. “Can you prove your claim?” 

“I think so,” Etienne replied, pursing his lips and seeming to consider a moment. “The Duc d’Orleans is always such an elegantly-dressed gentleman. The day he was taken, when he thought he was meeting the Chevalier de Lorraine, he was wearing a lovely brocade jacket, in a most appealing dark blue color. I’m afraid that coat was… damaged, so we left it in his apartments. I do hope it can be mended, but it may not be possible; that material was so delicate, and it tore so easily.” 

With such an effort to contain the information about Philippe’s disappearance, there was no way a vintner from outside Versailles could have known the specifics of that ruined coat unless he had played some part in ruining it. Barrineau was indeed the one behind this crime. Anger began to curdle Louis’s belly, and he had to remind himself he was a king. “Why?” he asked quietly. “Why have you done this? Your disagreement is with me; my brother does not make policy. He never has. He is innocent - you need not have involved him.” 

“We needed your attention, Your Majesty. In the interest of full disclosure, we originally thought about going after the Dauphin, but he is guarded much too closely. And some of our number are squeamish about threatening a child. Getting past his guards would have been tantamount to being in a minor war; it was decided he was not worth the effort, nor the risk. The Duc d’Orleans, on the other hand, was comparably much easier to get close to. All we had to do was entice him with a meeting with the Chevalier, and that took care of the presence of his guards. And as a capable adult and an adept fighter, we were totally justified in our use of force to subdue him. I do feel badly about misusing the Chevalier this way,” Etienne said with a pout, though his tone did not sound in the least bit regretful. “The poor fool just wanted to give Your Majesty a beautiful party; he could not have known that when he contracted me to provide the wine, he gave us the opening we needed. Nor did he realize that we could use his signature upon the business contract to copy his handwriting and forge a note from him, so that Monsieur would walk right into our trap.”

Louis was glad the Chevalier was not present, because he was not entirely certain the blonde would have be able to contain himself at these admissions. Nor did Louis think he would even try to hold his brother’s lover back, after hearing that his own son had been, however briefly, a target. _It would be pleasurable to watch this traitor torn limb from limb. Those ancient Romans were on to something with their public feeding of the early Christians to the lions. There are a couple of lions in the menagerie that I'm sure would be delighted with meat so fresh it's still screaming._ His anger was steadily mounting, and Etienne’s placid demeanor was just making it worse. “You attack my blood, threaten my kin, and you expect me to yield to you? Your notes claimed that you and your confederation were still my ‘loyal subjects,’ but loyal subjects don’t kidnap members of the royal family!”

“Your Majesty, I understand the difficult position we have put you in, I truly do, and I do regret that it came to this. But you must understand the position you put us in first,” Etienne said earnestly, leaning forward in his first demonstration of passionate emotion. “You’ve taken our livelihoods from us, our rights as French citizens, and all because of a middling difference in theology! We still believe in the same God, and in the holy sacrifice and resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ. We just don’t want to give our allegiance to the pope, who has sanctioned all manner of abuses to occur in his Church.”

“I am God’s representative in France. My law is as God’s law. Your heresy targets my authority as well as that of His Holiness!”

“How? Before you revoked the Edict of Nantes, Protestants were productive members of your kingdom. We willingly fought in your wars. We helped you build your beautiful palaces, including Versailles. You have undone the great work of your own grandfather, Henry IV, that brought peaceful accord after years upon years of religious strife. Was Henry, as King of France, not also God’s representative during his reign, with the same holy authority you bear today? Does this not mean that you have overturned God’s law, which is supposed to endure forever?” Etienne leaned back in his chair as Louis fumed. “If you do not want us here, then let us leave peacefully and make our way elsewhere. You tell us we must live in this country but what sort of lives do we get to have? It is no wonder there would be those who are desperate enough to lash out at you. We want to love you as loyal subjects love their sovereign, but you do not even view us as citizens. You are not allowing us to _be_ your people!”

“Enough!” Louis slammed his fist onto the table. “Protestants have always had the option of conversion; it is not my fault they are too stubborn to take the easy way back to true religion. But we are talking about _you_ , sir! You have plotted against me, and laid hands on a royal Prince of France with malicious and violent intent; you have committed treason to the crown.”

“I know,” Etienne nodded in agreement, not the least bit bothered by the naming of his crime. “I am ready to die for what I’ve done, for it was done in service to God. I knew that would be my fate when I took on this work, and I am resigned to martyrdom. I shall join a holy company of witnesses in heaven upon leaving this life. So do what you will - it will not matter in light of eternity. But, by that paper in your hand, I have achieved what I’d hoped - freedom for my fellow believers. So I shall die satisfied with my earthly legacy.”

“And you think that I won’t just tear this edict up and kill you anyway?”

“You might, but I doubt you will,” Etienne said calmly.

“Why is that?”

“Because, with all due respect, I still have the upper hand, Your Majesty. I know where your brother is, and I know what will happen when I don’t return to my companions in due course. Whether I die or not - today or tomorrow or next week - that edict is the key to his deliverance. If you do not authorize it, you will never see him again, for I will not tell you anything more until it is published and announced as law to the people of France. And even then, after he is restored to you, you cannot revoke it again without making yourself look like a weak, utterly incompetent fool before your entire kingdom.”

Etienne’s smug countenance enraged Louis, and he finally exploded. “Then I shall consign this document to the flames, and smite every Protestant in this country! We shall see how incompetent you all think me then! You thought you were so persecuted and hard-pressed before? None of that shall compare to the vengeance I shall have. Conversion will not be enough to shield your people. There will be no escape, for no country on earth, not even my enemies, will dare take your refugees when I am done.” 

Louis leaned closer, flecks of spit flying out of his mouth along with his words. They hit Etienne in the face, but he did not flinch. “And when your fellow Huguenots look upon the scorched earth of my wrath, before I strike my final blow, they will have you to thank. You think I shall grant you death? Oh, no, Monsieur Barrineau! Not when I can have you watch as this disaster unfolds, and make sure everyone knows you were responsible for it. They will all know it was your decision to strike at me first, and that I only seek retribution for the harm done to my family.” 

Etienne’s face tightened, his eyes glittering with malice towards the King, who was now breathing heavily from his outrage. “You may be interested to know,” he replied steadily, but with an undercurrent of hatred, “before we gagged him, Monsieur did say that you would not yield to us. I insisted that he was incorrect - that of course, his brother the King loved him more than that, that this was such a minor concession he had to make in order to save his family. But now, it seems there was truth to his unhappy claim. You don’t care what happens to him as long as your authority remains absolute. You would even use his death to your advantage. And I just don’t know how any brother could do that… even a King.” 

Pointing to the drawing which was before him on the table, he went on. “It’s a very accurate depiction, Your Majesty. He’s been that way for days now, with no relief, and he shall remain that way until the deadline expires. You could end it all now; you’ve already written the law. Is your royal pride really worth the alternative? Do you want Monsieur to die? But before that happens, do you want him raped?” Etienne smiled sinisterly as the King visibly winced at the word. “I regret to say, with the manner of people involved in this, it is not out of the realm of possibility, especially if I am not there to monitor them. There is one, a very troubled man with great anger in his heart, who would do it just for the bragging rights - to be able to say he sodomized the King’s unwilling, defenseless brother.” 

Louis, to the astonishment of the prisoner, began laughing. Etienne raised an eyebrow, “You find the idea of your brother being violated amusing, Your Majesty?” he asked with undisguised contempt.

“You know, I pity you, sir,” Louis responded through his laughter, which seemed to grow unnaturally shrill.

“Pity me? Why?” Etienne eyed him cautiously, clearly confused by the King’s sudden hysteria and likely wondering if he was going mad right in front of him.

“It’s a funny thing - loyalty. There are those, like myself, who are owed loyalty by virtue of the authority God has given them. There are those like my brother, who through his own merits and personal worth, won the loyalty of the soldiers under his command as he fought in my wars. And then there are those like you,” Louis chuckled, taking a small paper from his pocket that Fabien Marchal had given to him less than half an hour earlier. “You are not much of a leader, are you? You don’t appear to inspire any loyalty in your followers; you can’t even control them. You just admitted you can’t trust your people to behave out of your sight, which tells me your group is in chaos. And one of your co-conspirators has given us information on where you have hidden my brother. You brought it right to us in your own wagon.”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I don’t believe you.”

“Believe me or not,” Louis, bringing his mirth under control, carelessly tossed the message onto the table. The message had been copied for the search party to follow, but Louis had wanted to keep the original to show Etienne, to read his reaction. That look of bewilderment was genuine - the man had not schooled his countenance quickly enough. He could not hide the loss of color in his face, nor the blaze of anger that sparked in his eyes. _Then it is true,_ Louis thought. _He has been surprised._ “It doesn’t change your fate, nor the fates of those who wait at the ‘maison with the two large oak trees in front’ that lies a bit more than ten miles from my palace. I don’t know what you were planning to do to my brother at nightfall, but it seems those plans will be shortly thwarted. My men should be there within the hour. And they had better find him unharmed - not a hair out of place. I’ll leave you to consider how all of this will go down, and to wonder, was it all really worth it, for such a ‘minor concession’?” 

Louis smirked grimly at him, then addressed Monsieur de la Reynie, who had stood as silently as a shadow in the corner during the men’s parley. “Inspector, please offically arrest Monsieur Barrineau, and bind him. I see he has been shown that rather upsetting picture of the Duc d’Orleans we received yesterday. Use that as your reference point - but I want chains instead of ropes. The tighter, the better.” He turned to exit the room.

“Yes, Your Majesty. Would you like him gagged as well?” Monsieur de la Reynie asked, already knowing the answer.

Louis turned and eyed the prisoner icily. “He’s already given us a confession and he’s said he won’t tell us anything of further use. He only seems willing to describe unspeakable crimes against my brother’s person, which I do not care to hear. So have at it - stop his disgusting, treasonous mouth. Give him the same royal treatment that he was kind enough to give to my brother.”

* * *

The horses thundered down the dusty, dry road as the sun climbed higher into the sky. Fabien, the Chevalier, and fifteen soldiers, all of them armed, sped toward the destination in the directions described in the cryptic message they had found. 

Before leaving Versailles, the Chevalier had rushed back to his rooms to get his pistol and sword and then to the Orleans’ suite to inform Liselotte. He thought she had a right to know what was happening regarding her husband, and though he knew he was bringing worry to her, keeping her in the dark and disappearing on her for who knows how long would only distress her more. He had slipped off the ring that belonged to Philippe and handed it over to her. It was on his dominant hand and would interfere with holding a pistol steady while pulling a trigger, and it would not fit correctly on any of his other fingers. He would not risk its loss again. “Keep it safe, and remind me to give it to him when we get back.”

Liselotte had hugged him tightly, and whispered, “Be careful - I'm not willing to lose either of you. Bring our husband home, for all of us.”

As the men galloped, a nondescript, small closed carriage followed behind at a decent clip. It had been arranged, just in case the Duc d’Orleans was not fit to ride following his rescue, a possibility the Chevalier had not thought of until Fabien mentioned it. A single horse could get him back quicker, but if necessary, this carriage could convey him in privacy and comfort back to Versailles, and no one would be the wiser as to its occupant. 

The Chevalier focused between his mount’s ears at the road that stretched in front of him. _Hold on just a little while longer, Mignonette. I'm coming for you, my love - wait for me!_ He did not know what he would find at the end of the road, but he prayed it would be Philippe, whole and well, his life and the sanctity of his person intact. God help anyone who sought to change that. He was under orders from the King to take prisoners alive, if it could be helped, for questioning to root out other members of the conspiracy. But if the Chevalier had to kill to protect his lover, he would do it without hesitation or apology. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Louis XIV did have some lions on hand during his reign. During the seventeenth century, exotic birds and small animals provided diverting ornaments for the court of France; lions and other large animals were kept primarily to be brought out for staged fight. The collecting grew and attained more permanent lodgings in the 1660s, when Louis constructed two new menageries: one at Vincennes, and a more elaborate one at Versailles.  
> Around 1661, he had a menagerie of "ferocious" beasts built at Vincennes for the organization of fights. Lions, tigers, and leopards were kept in cages around an amphitheater where the king could entertain courtiers and visiting dignitaries with bloody battles. In 1682, for instance, the ambassador of Persia enjoyed the spectacle of a fight to the death between a royal tiger and an elephant. Yick.  
> At Versailles, Louis erected a menagerie within the palace’s park. Animal fights were halted at Vincennes around 1700, the site fell into disuse, and the animals were installed at Versailles with the others.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this and the next two chapters. Be warned, and take note of the tags in the description. This chapter will include descriptions of past non-consensual, underage sex (it's kept kind of mild, but proceed as you need to) and violence.

Philippe was certain he had never been in such extreme discomfort in his entire life. Everything up to this point had been, comparatively, a stroll in the park. It had been hours since Etienne had left and he was still bound overly tightly, and he was sweating from the strain his limbs were under. The linen of his shirt was starting to cling unpleasantly to his body as he perspired. He was only able to take shallow breaths, being unable to expand his chest fully. His mouth being blocked did not help matters, nor did the difficulty he had swallowing due to thirst. The last time his gag had been removed, which was more than eight hours ago now, was the last time he was allowed a small sip of water. 

Renard had settled in with his wine upon the mattress against the wall, eyeing Philippe lustfully as he drank. Philippe avoided looking at him, but he could feel the man’s wicked eyes lingering upon him, obviously entertained and taking great delight in the prince’s agonizing predicament. Meanwhile, Mathieu had reluctantly sat on the hard floor on the opposite side of the room. He was subtly watching Philippe as well, noting his stress with remorse, but the only thing he could do at this point was prop the cellar door open to keep some air flowing into the stuffy room. This did provide a very minimal comfort. But Mathieu was mainly focused on keeping Renard in his sights. Anytime the other man moved, the boy appeared ready to spring up and defend the helpless hostage. Renard, for his part, had not yet attempted to approach Philippe, or to do anything untoward. Instead, when he wasn’t slurping down wine, he merely talked of inappropriate subjects. At nauseating length. Philippe was no prude; he had stories and life experiences that possibly would have made even Renard blush. But he couldn’t speak of those now (nor would he, even if he did have the use of his words), and he did not want to hear about Renard’s escapades with various whores. It became clear that this unsavory man had very specific tastes in sexual activities. 

“There was one little girl, two weeks ago - can’t think of her name - but she was a feisty one. Wouldn’t stop fighting me. Usually at this one brothel, you could tell the proprietor how you wanted your girl when you paid for your time: what she’d wear or how she was to behave. I could have had them tie her up for me before I came in the room, since it’s a fairly common request, but it’s always more stimulating to do it myself. Anyway, this little slut was probably 14 or so, and such a nice, supple young body, and she was willing enough at first, until she saw the ropes and realized what I wanted to do with her.” Philippe couldn’t hide his disgust at the thought of this big ruffian restraining a little girl. Paying for an illicit romp with a prostitute was one thing; assaulting one was another matter entirely. _Bad enough she had to have sex with him in the first place, but he had to humilate and brutalize her as well?_ _Probably the only way he can get any woman to even touch him..._ It was unfortunately not uncommon to see poor girls, even ones barely on the cusp of puberty, driven to sell themselves, either by their own desperate initiative, or by being pimped out, sometimes by their own family members, to men who would pay generous coin for a warm, nubile body in their bed. Once that money changed hands, these sad creatures were not allowed the luxury of refusal if they didn’t like what a customer wanted for his time. For many girls in poverty, it was their only way of survival in this world. And some would manage to survive - some might even become successful and gain a reasonable level of satisfaction with their lives - while many, many others would be taken down by disease, pregnancy or childbirth gone wrong, or even worse, by a cruel customer. There was a flesh trade for young men and boys, as well, but that was not Renard’s topic.

Mathieu looked away, troubled, as usual, by the descriptions of forced sex with adolescent prostitutes. Renard was not a devout Christian, nor did he pretend to be; Mathieu doubted that he believed in God at all. Nor did he really seem to care anything about the Huguenot plight. Etienne had brought him into their plan with little explanation, and did not seem overly concerned at the man’s unsavory behavior as long as he did as he was told and pulled his weight. In their downtime, Renard frequently told of his exploits in brothels and even sordid deeds in back alleys. The general theme was that too much time had passed since he had been able to satisfy himself, so in order to bemoan the point, he relived the most memorable conquests he’d had. Although it made Mathieu terribly uncomfortable, he had heard it all before, many times. But familiarity didn’t make this helping go down any easier, and he cringed, mortified that a nobleman like the Duc d’Orleans should be subjected to this kind of crass talk. And Renard did enjoy an audience, especially a ‘captive’ one.

“After stripping her, I managed to get her trussed up and gagged her with her stockings, but she still wouldn’t stop squirming. I put her in a hogtie to teach her a lesson. Do you know what that is, Monsieur? It’s when you bend them in half and tie their feet up to their arms behind their back." Renard grinned. "Makes it impossible to do just about anything but roll around, and even then, it’s hard to breathe in such a position. Well, with this little bitch I drew up her ankles and attached them to a rope wrapped around her neck. She couldn’t struggle at all without nearly strangling herself. She sure did try, though. So, she calmed down pretty quick until all she could do was cry and mewl into her gag. Then I fucked her and made her cry some more. She was delicious like that; worth every penny. I like when the defiant ones resign themselves to submission.”

“Please stop,” Mathieu muttered. 

“I wonder if Monsieur would like to know how it feels to be hogtied…”

“Stop!” Mathieu snapped, more forcefully this time. Renard dropped his lewd grin and glared daggers at the younger man's rebuke, but he did stop talking. Instead, shaking his head in frustration, he took another swig from his wine bottle, but there was only a small portion left, enough for one sip. Groaning, he pulled himself up and started to move, a slight sluggishness the only sign of the amount of alcohol he had already ingested. 

Instantly, Mathieu was on his feet as well. “What are you doing?”

“Getting another bottle,” Renard growled as he continued past Philippe and went to the wine racks on the wall. 

“Haven’t you had enough?”

“No, I haven’t. Maybe if you had some yourself, it would help with the stick that’s lodged up your ass,” Renard grumbled in annoyance at being scolded by a child.

Philippe, too, felt somewhat annoyed. Maybe it was the discomfort talking, but he didn’t mind a whit if Renard wanted more wine. _Let the man occupy himself and drink himself into a stupor, for God’s sake, Mathieu! Don’t antagonize him. Even if it takes multiple bottles, he’s still only human - he is bound to pass out sooner or later._ But then, maybe Mathieu knew the man better than he did. Maybe Renard’s behavior escalated the drunker he got, and maybe his young defender was trying to put a stop to it while he could still reasonably handle him.

Renard selected his bottle and set it on the table, once again pulling out his knife to pry out the cork. As he worked it loose, he said casually, “Speaking of hogties, maybe now might be a good time to start thinking of getting Monsieur prepared for his journey.”

Philippe’s eyes widened and he looked to Mathieu in panic. _What? No! No, no, no!_ Mathieu saw, and authoritatively answered Renard’s suggestion. “Etienne said we wouldn’t leave until nightfall. There’s hours yet. Besides, we should wait until he returns so he can decide how he wants it done.”

“I believe Etienne designated me the expert. I’m the one who knows how to keep pretty little things like His Highness secure. Make everything a bit tighter, blindfold him, chloroform him, and stick him in one of the barrels. There you have it - a neat and tidy piece of cargo ready to be delivered to port.” Renard succeeded in popping the cork, and, tossing it aside, took a long swig from the new bottle.

Philippe again looked towards Mathieu, shaking his head and silently pleading with the boy. _Please, don’t let him do this. Don’t let him touch me! I can’t be tied any tighter than this - I won’t be able to breathe. I barely can as it is. My arms will break, I’m sure of it._ And they would cram him into a barrel to hide him, as well? All the way to Le Havre? Philippe had never been claustrophobic before in his life, but he certainly felt so now, and he wasn’t even in the barrel yet!

“That's enough!” Mathieu commanded. “We aren’t going to do anything now. We don’t even know if we’re going yet. Etienne might return with news that the King is ready to yield. There’s no point in preparing him for a trip he might not even need to take, and there’s certainly no reason to make him more uncomfortable than he already is.” 

Renard took another gulp and wiped his mouth with his fist. He squinted hard at Mathieu. “Why do you care? He’s a hostage - he’s not your friend. What’s with this pathetic urge to protect him? Do you think he’d give a shit about you if he wasn’t at our mercy? You think you’re ingratiating yourself, so he’ll favor you or reward you? Truth is, little Rembrandt, Monsieur High-and-Mighty, here, doesn’t think you’re fit to wipe his boots.”

“You’re drunk, Renard,” Mathieu said dismissively, rolling his eyes at the older man. “Why don’t you go back upstairs and finish your bottle in peace?”

“I bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

“Everyone would. Go sleep it off, and I won’t tell Etienne about your embarrassing behavior.”

“Oh, of course you’ll tell him. Just like you told him about my little interaction with Monsieur the first night. Little snitch,” he added, under his breath.

“I didn’t need to tell him anything - look at his face! Your own hand told him all he needed to know.” 

Renard gulped more wine, and then stared down the boy. “Are you jealous? Is that it?” he questioned, mockingly. “You want to sample Monsieur’s royal ass, too, but you’re too afraid to admit it?” Mathieu’s eyes nearly popped out of his head and he sputtered in astonishment at the question. “Oh, I always took you for one of _those_ types… you know, ‘artistic.’ The same way da Vinci was, with the Italian vice. At first, I thought you were just a scared little virgin, the way you’d blush when I talked about fucking my whores, but I know better now. I’ve seen your _art._ You do far more sketches of male figures than female, so it's clear where your preferences lie, though I still doubt you’ve ever been brave enough to stick your prick into any type of hole.”

“W-wha… how dare you…” Mathieu stammered, aghast at the presumption. He met Philippe's eyes and his face flamed red.

Renard took advantage of Mathieu’s discomfiture to stealthily move until he was just behind Philippe’s chair. Even Philippe, who was taken aback by the insinuation and Mathieu’s rather damning reaction to it, didn’t immediately notice the shift until he heard Renard speak again. “Makes no difference to me; I don’t give a shit if you’re into buggery,” he chuckled. “A man’s got to get off somehow. I know I’ve been certainly waiting long enough. I shall take what I want with Monsieur, but I don’t mind sharing.” At that moment, Philippe felt something twist the knots at his elbows, sending a sharp pain up into his shoulders before returning back to its original tightness. He gave a muffled yelp of surprise.

Mathieu’s eyes blazed angrily, his embarrassment forgotten. “Don’t touch him, Renard! You were warned!”

“Tell you what: I’m willing to compromise. Let me have a go, show you how it’s done, and then you can fuck him yourself if you like. Have at it. Oh! Or do you want him to fuck _you_ instead?” Renard feigned concern, as if the notion had just occurred to him. “Might be tricky to work that while he’s all tied up like this. Besides, something tells me he prefers playing the girl in this matter as well.” Renard reached around and grasped Philippe’s chest, giving it a squeeze over the ropes. “Though the bosom is a dead giveaway…” he muttered mockingly, and he punctuated it with a cruel twist over Philippe’s nipple, which made the prince grunt and squirm. 

“Get away from him, Renard. I mean it!” Mathieu was furious. His face was still red, though more from outrage now than humiliation. Philippe saw his right hand hover near his waist, fingers flexing in and out of a fist.

“What’s wrong, Rembrandt? Surely you think he’s pretty, too?” Renard leaned down and pinched Philippe’s cheek. Philippe recoiled at the stench of alcohol lingering on the man’s hot breath upon his face. “How many sketches of him have you made by now? Do you pleasure yourself at night to his image?”

“I said, get away from him!” Mathieu yelled, finally drawing the pistol from his waistcoat. He held it aloft, aimed at Renard, his finger upon the trigger. 

Silent tension filled the room for several minutes - so thick, you could cut it with a knife.

“You plan on shooting me, boy?” Renard finally asked, smiling coldly.

“I don’t want to, but I will. I’ll give you a chance to cooperate. Move away from him. Leave this room now, and don’t come back, and I won’t hurt you.” Mathieu's voice rang with authority, and his hand was steady enough, but Renard did not seem overly concerned.

“You won’t do it,” Renard smirked confidently. He crouched so that he was mostly behind the chair, and suddenly his knife was at Philippe’s neck. His other hand tangled in the prisoner’s long, dark tresses, pulling his head back so the entire length of his white throat would be more exposed. Philippe gave a tiny ‘mmf’ of alarm. “You wouldn’t dare try to shoot me, not with Monsieur in the way. You don’t trust your aim enough not to accidentally hit him. I’m content to stay right where I am.” Renard let his grip tighten, bringing the knife edge closer to Philippe’s neck. The prince could feel the whisper of cold steel next to his clammy skin. “But I don’t think Monsieur will like it very much. So why don’t you put the gun away?”

The standoff continued, neither man willing to relinquish his position, and Philippe was literally caught in the middle. He didn’t want Renard anywhere near him, but he also was very nervous about Mathieu’s aim. If the boy was as inexperienced with a gun as Renard hinted, the shot could go awry and easily hit Philippe. If that happened, even if it didn’t kill him immediately, he was as good as dead - there would be no chance of receiving a surgeon’s care as long as he was in the kidnappers’ custody. _God, Etienne needs to hurry his ass back here and break this up!_

For a split second, Mathieu and Philippe locked eyes, silently trying to figure out what to do. And in that second, Mathieu faltered.

Suddenly, Renard threw the chair forcefully to the side. Of course, it toppled, and down Philippe went with it, crashing to the floor. His entire right side from knee to shoulder took the brunt of the fall as he actively worked to keep from smashing his head against the unforgiving stone. As it was, the impact jarred his entire body, and though he did just manage to avoid hitting his head, he was stunned. His vision turned white and while he did not technically lose consciousness, he temporarily lost awareness. It was only a few seconds before his vision returned, and the men were still fighting.

As soon as Philippe had been unceremoniously tossed out of the way, Renard leapt at the smaller man, grasping his arm and attempting to wrestle the pistol away from him. Still disoriented from the fall, Philippe belatedly noticed that Renard had dropped his knife as he dove into the scuffle, whether intentionally to better ward off the pistol, or accidentally due to the influence of the alcohol he had consumed. Philippe desperately wanted to squirm toward it and use it to cut himself loose, but stranded on his side and pinned down like this, he was as useless as a turtle on its back. He wriggled futiley against his bonds as his two captors battled. 

Caught off guard by the speed of Renard’s action, as well as the shock of seeing Philippe knocked over, Mathieu tried to aim his gun toward any part of Renard’s body that he could feasibly hit. Renard had caught his wrist and bent it sharply backward. Philippe heard the snap, and Mathieu yelled in pain as the gun slipped from his fractured hand and clattered to the ground. Furious, he rammed his body into Renard’s, knocking the air out of the bigger man and setting him off balance. For a brief moment, Philippe believed that the boy might just be scrappy enough and the big man drunk enough that the tables could turn in his favor.

His hopes were quickly dashed.

With a roar, Renard recovered his footing, then grabbed Mathieu by the back of the neck, pulling his head back and viciously slamming his skull into the stone wall. Three times, full force. Philippe heard the crunch of bone… saw the blood spatter left on the wall... and then watched the boy’s limp body fall to the floor, where he lay utterly still, his face a bloody, pulpy mess. Philippe was unable to hold back his cry of horror. _Shit! He killed him! He’s just murdered that boy. Oh my God. Oh, fuck! No…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Renard accuses Mathieu of homosexual inclinations like Leonardo da Vinci, whose sexuality has been the subject of satire, analysis, and speculation. It is generally accepted that da Vinci was gay. Court records of 1476, when he was aged twenty-four, show that Leonardo and three other young men were charged with sodomy in an incident involving a well-known male prostitute (remember that homosexuality during this time was viewed as a sin that was punishable by death; it was so even in Monsieur's time). The charges were dismissed for lack of evidence, and there is speculation that since one of the accused was related to Lorenzo de' Medici, the family exerted its influence to secure the dismissal. Much has been written about his presumed homosexuality and its role in his art, particularly in the androgyny and eroticism manifested in Saint John the Baptist and Bacchus and more explicitly in a number of erotic drawings.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS for this chapter. As mentioned in the previous chapter's notes, this story does contain descriptions of sexual violence, and this chapter is a big one. Please take note of the tags and proceed carefully.  
> Sorry sorry sorry sorry!

_Oh God. Shit. He killed him. God, he really killed him..._

The room itself seemed to hold its breath in stunned disbelief over what had just occurred within it. Renard stood over Mathieu’s lifeless form, panting. “Stupid brat,” he muttered quietly, poking at the boy’s body with the tip of his boot. Philippe couldn’t tell if he sounded remorseful or just put out after having bashed a skull in, but it didn’t matter: Mathieu did not stir. “If he would have just let me alone… minded his own business… it would have been fine. I guess that’s that, then.”

As Philippe continued to stare in unbelieving horror at his martyred ally, that sensitive young artist who was so desperate to do the right thing, he was unable to truly process how alone he really was now. Renard staggered back to the table where he had left his bottle of wine before the chaos began. He tipped it back and chugged about half the bottle down. Once he came back up for air, he grimaced and wiped away the residual liquid that dribbled down his chin.

Turning to look at Philippe, still immobilized upon the ground, he gave him an ugly smirk. “Looks like I will have to make myself scarce before Etienne returns. He won’t be pleased about this. I think I can consider my services ‘no longer required.’ I won't be getting my pay, so might as well take what I want while I still can. I’m going to come out of this with something, damn it.” He bent over and picked up his discarded knife, and stalked over to Philippe. The raven-haired captive looked up at him in mounting terror as he approached, and struggled to move away with all his might, but he had nowhere to go. Quickly using the knife to cut through the knot at his back, Renard untied the bonds holding him to the overturned chair, and roughly pulled him from the floor. He then dragged him over to the small table, and, propping him up against it, rewrapped the rope around Philippe’s torso. Without the chair to provide a tiny bit of extra slack, the coils were tightly constricting him even more and making his still-bound arms burn as they were pinned closer to his body. “As much as I have enjoyed your company, Monsieur, I regret that I cannot take you with me,” Renard said as he finished restraining the prince. He then yanked Philippe’s shirt out of the waistband of his breeches. “I don’t quite know where I’m going to end up, and you will just slow me down. So we will have to make the most of our time together right now.” 

As he mumbled through his plans, he feverishly used the knife to cut a swath of linen from the hem of the billowy shirt which would normally hit at the lower thigh on the prince’s slender form. “Gmfuff mm mrrffhrr!” Philippe exclaimed loudly throughout the process, feeling foolish as his command for release was garbled by the material that filled his mouth, but he was desperate to do something. He couldn’t just accept this treatment, and he was growing more panicked by the minute. “Dnnn tff mm!”

Conscious of the nearness of the blade, Philippe instinctively recoiled from it as it slashed at his clothing. Feeling the table holding him up, he had sudden inspiration. He leaned back, leveraging himself against the tabletop, and, with a grunt, kicked out with his bound legs. He succeeded in knocking Renard back a few steps, but it did not hurt the big man has much as he'd hoped, and he could not regain his balance quickly enough to do so again. Renard, with fury in his eyes, stepped back up to him, and struck him hard across the face. “You’ll pay for that, you son of a bitch!” he shouted angrily.

Philippe blinked back the unexpected tears that had sprung to his eyes from the pain of the head-spinning blow. He cursed unintelligibly, and an alarming wave of nausea washed over him. He whimpered, and prayed he would not vomit while the gag was in his mouth. If he did so, he’d surely choke to death. Still struggling against his tormentor, he desperately tried to will the biliousness away, breathing heavily. 

“Still being far too loud,” Renard grumbled, and began to wrap the linen he had cut from Philippe’s sweat-damp shirt around the lower part of his face a couple of times, which pressed the cloth within his mouth even further in. Any slight articulation Philippe’s original gag had allowed him was gone as the added pressure on his lips and the extra restriction of his jaw rendered him essentially mute. It also made breathing that much harder. Renard tied the material tightly, and took a moment to admire his work, squeezing Philippe’s chin. “That’s much better,” he said with mocking satisfaction. “Finally, Your Highness has been gagged properly. It does suit you better. I can't wait to hear you try and protest now.”

With lightning-quick speed, Renard then used his knife to cut the laces of Philippe’s breeches, opening the front and then yanking them down. The ropes around his thighs prevented them from dropping all the way, but his private areas were exposed, which was all Renard needed. He then quickly spun Philippe around and bent him over, slamming him roughly, face down, onto the table. _No… no… not this… no…_ Philippe fought to get out of Renard’s grasp, but the man was so much bigger he was able to pin the bound prince down with one arm while he worked at his own trousers. As he tried to wiggle and jerk himself free, Philippe made as much noise as he could through his gag, but he knew no one would be able to hear him. He had understood that he, Mathieu, and Renard were the only ones in the building, and even if someone was outside, his muffled voice wouldn’t be able to carry that far. And the one person who might have helped him was dead on the floor behind him.

Suddenly he felt a stinging snap upon his cold, exposed flank. He screamed in surprise and pain. He tried to turn his head to see what it was, and he was able to catch a glimpse of a leather strap in Renard’s hand. _What the hell is that? Is that his belt? Is this maniac beating me with a fucking belt?_ Renard snapped the strap again and again upon Philippe’s buttocks, thighs, and lower back, and again the prince cried out, unable to hold his reaction in as the blows rained down. 

“Do you like that, you little whore?” Renard hissed, and struck him again. “Because I do. This is what you get for trying to fight me.” Another snap. “Cry for me, _Your_ _Highness._ Let’s see how well I’ve silenced you.” The belt snapped again. “You made me kill someone; you’d better be worth it.”

* * *

The rescue mission slowly and silently approached the house. They had abandoned their saddles and left the horses about half a mile away, out of concern that dozens of thundering hooves would alert someone to their arrival. Three armed men had been left to guard the horses among the trees and to block the road, preventing anyone from coming or going while the operation was occurring. The remaining fourteen had continued the rest of the way on foot, under the cover of the pines that lined the wide dirt path. When, at last, they came upon the modest stone house that lay in a little clearing, with the tell-tale oak trees in front of it, the group quickly assembled out of view to receive orders.

Fabien spoke urgently to the assembly, with firm authority. “Surround the premises. If there is anyone outside who may cause trouble, no matter who it is, quietly take care of them before they can raise an alarm. When everyone is in place, I will send the signal. You four,” indicating a small cluster of guards, “will remain on the outside. If you see anyone trying to flee, pursue and arrest them. The rest of us will storm the house. We must be quick and decisive; we will only have a small window of time to take them by surprise.”

“And what if there is no one here?” asked one of the guards. "It looks quiet."

“Then we will come together and return to Versailles with all haste, after we do a sweep of the property to make sure we have not missed any evidence. One more thing,” Fabien lowered his tone and made sure to look each man square in the eye. It was important that no one miss his instructions. “We do not know how many people we are dealing with. It may be one, or a dozen, or more. Whatever we find inside, remember that the safety of the Duc d’Orleans is paramount. Take as many of these people alive as possible, but if the situation deteriorates, then kill if you must. However, it is imperative that you do not do so in haste; if Monsieur’s welfare would be jeopardized by such action, then hold your fire until you have a clear shot. Make sure you know your target, and that your aim can be true. If there is even a whisper of uncertainty in your mind, do not fire. Do you understand me?” Fabien’s voice was as stern as a military general’s, and his expression indicated he would tolerate no error. The life of the King's brother was at stake.

The Chevalier’s heart knocked against his ribs. When Philippe had gone off to war the first time, it was barely even a war, more of a ‘conflict,’ and the Chevalier knew the prince was so anxious to test his mettle and prove himself to his brother, he begged off, knowing he would only be a distraction. The second time Philippe had left to fight, the Chevalier had been in such pitiful condition from his consumption of powders and still in the throes of needing them altogether too much, so he was not fit to go. No commander would have had him on the field. He needed that time to recover his sobriety and learn how to do without the substances he had grown so dependent on. 

He _had_ been to war before, and had proven himself quite nobly on the battlefield, though he truly hated every minute of it. Though the experience had not had the lasting internal effects on him as it had for Philippe, he still didn’t want to repeat the adventure. All the noise, and dirt, and screaming - though he would have done his duty if the King had asked it of him, he was not suited for a long-term military career. War was not as glorious as people thought, no matter how victorious you were. But this moment now seemed so much larger in his mind than any war could ever be. Perhaps it was because the crux of the matter was Philippe’s precious life. Who cared about conquering lands or defending borders? This battle today was about his beloved! There could be no greater cause to fight for!

“Lorraine, are you ready for this?” Fabien’s voice reached him. He gave a weak nod, his voice oddly choked off. But his silent response did not seem to satisfy the inspector. “I do not want you to go inside if you do not feel that you will be able to handle it. I want you to search your heart and make the decision yourself about what will be best for Philippe. You can remain outside on watch with the other four men I chose, and have command over them, or you can breach the house with the rest of us. But you must be prepared for whatever lies inside. You cannot let yourself go off half-cocked if what you see-”

“I understand!” The Chevalier interrupted gruffly, finally able to get his vocal cords to work. “I hear you, Fabien, and I promise I will heed you. I am fine, truly. I’m ready.” 

* * *

Philippe was beginning to see spots in his vision. He couldn’t take a deep breath; the ropes were too tight and his fear was overwhelming. He felt oddly deaf - the only sound that reached his ears was the too-fast thrum of his heart, and behind that, a dull, high-pitched buzzing in his brain. His legs were basically boneless now; his full weight was lying upon the table. Even if he had the opportunity, he wasn’t even sure if he could fight anymore. 

He had lost track of how many times he had been whipped, but the blows abruptly stopped and Renard grabbed his bruised hips. “I think that’s enough tenderizing for your fine little ass. It’s time to split you apart.”

_Oh God. No… no…_

He wailed in despair as Renard leaned onto him, pressing him down. “Make no mistake, Monsieur, this will hurt,” he growled, his alcohol-laden breath hot in Philippe’s ear. “It isn’t going to matter how many other men have used you. When I fuck you, it _is_ going to hurt, because I want it to. And remember this: I’m going to be the last thing you ever experience. You can’t move, and you can’t speak, and you and the King mean shit to me. You’re just a pretty little whore to be used, and when I’m done I’ll silence you for good.”

_No. Oh God. Fuck. Not this…_

He felt large hands start pawing aggressively at him, spreading the stinging cheeks of his buttocks apart. 

_Oh my God, no, please. This can’t happen…_

His skin prickled cold all over; his stomach roiled. 

Renard was going to rape him. Then he would kill him. Just like he killed Mathieu.

_Oh God, please someone Lorraine help me brother no God Lorraine help stop please no no no no_

Philippe felt the pinch of a finger probing for his opening, and he just closed his eyes and began to scream once more. It was all he had left. 

Renard smiled with pleasure at the pathetic sound, for it was just what he wanted. He truly did love it when the defiant ones broke.

* * *

Fabien took half the men to the front of the house, and the other half went with the Chevalier to the back. After everyone was in place, the signal was given, a high bird-like whistle, and the men swarmed. An old back door, with rusty hinges, easily gave way against the raiders, and the Chevalier with his group of four poured into what appeared to be the kitchen. A loaf of bread left out on the counter… a fire’s embers still gleaming in the fireplace... _Someone has been here_ , thought the Chevalier. “Spread out and search,” he commanded quietly. The guards, with pistols in hand, began to sweep the back rooms of this old maison, with the knowledge that Fabien Marchal and his men were covering the front rooms and the upstairs. 

_Where are you, Philippe? Oh God, please be here… and please be alright…_ The Chevalier suddenly noticed a door in the far corner of the kitchen. Thinking it might be a pantry, which could conceivably be large enough to hide a person, he approached it carefully, and when he did not hear any stirring behind it, threw open the door.

Not a pantry, but a dark stairwell leading down into a sort of basement. Through the darkness, the Chevalier could see a dim light flickering at the bottom of the tunnel. He held his breath. He could swear he heard something… like someone crying? 

Heart pounding, the Chevalier began to carefully descend the stairs, one hand resting upon his gun, the other feeling against the wall to help keep his balance. Each move forward was hesitant and slow, for he could not risk a misstep in the dark. The closer he came to the dull light below, the more the muffled sounds of struggling reached his ears. As much as he wanted to call out Philippe's name, he resisted, knowing that might doom them both.

The light appeared to be streaming from a door that was standing ajar. When he found himself at the bottom of the staircase, with his feet on firm and level ground, he cautiously pushed the mysterious door all the way open and looked in.

His vision turned red. Some brute - no, he was the man who had delivered the barrels to Versailles the day before, who had handed him the receipt! - had bent Philippe over a table, half-undressed, and was speaking to him, though the Chevalier did not hear what the words were. 

All he could focus on was Philippe… his Mignonette… tightly tied hand and foot, screaming through the gag in his mouth, his eyes squeezed shut in agony. And this devil was going to… to...

Time seemed to slow down to a crawl, and his entire body grew hot with fury. He heard his blood surging through his veins, loud enough to almost drown out Philippe’s cries. It was the same as when he saw Thomas Beaumont about to drive a dagger into his lover’s heart. All he knew was that Philippe was in danger, and he had to stop it. The villain had not yet noticed him, so intent was he on terrorizing his victim. The Chevalier grasped his gun, and as he lifted it and prepared to cock it, his red vision sharpened. _Kill him. Kill him. You can shoot without hitting Philippe. Kill him now! KILL HIM._

Suddenly there was a deafening bang that echoed throughout the cellar. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Chevalier did go to war, alongside Philippe, in the War of Devolution and the Battle of Cassel. He actually received minor wounds in both. But since the show neglected to mention these experiences, I decided to still allude to Chevy's unseen battlefield experience, just not with Philippe, and gave reasons why he did not accompany Philippe to war in the show.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of rape and violence. Proceed carefully

Renard howled in rage and pain as the bullet tore a gaping hole into his back. The sound of the gunshot jolted the Chevalier out of his trance, and he blinked in confusion and surprise, unsure of what had just happened. He had not fired his gun, and yet the large man had most certainly been shot. He did not have time to ponder it, though, for the shot had not taken the villain out.

Renard whirled around, blood pouring from his wound, abandoning his victim as he looked for the culprit that had attacked him. As soon as he turned, he saw the intruder in the doorway, and with wild eyes and an animalistic roar, charged him with a knife in hand, trousers still hanging open. The Chevalier, unable to waste any time in this confined space, fired his pistol into the large man’s chest when he was but mere inches away. 

That second blast echoed through the stone walls, before the first had completely died down. Renard fell backwards, clutching at his chest, blood pouring from the wound. His knife clattered to the floor as he collapsed, gurgling as blood began to fill his lungs. Panting, the adrenaline electrifying his nerves, the Chevalier approached the dying man, taking care that the brute wasn’t going to try to attack again. Once more, looking into Renard’s ugly face as he slowly drowned in his blood, hatred filled his heart. The Chevalier kicked the knife away and leaned close as his enemy’s breath began to rattle. 

“I ought to skin you alive,” he growled, his voice sounding so menacing it should have belonged to another. “I should cut off your prick and make you eat it, for what you have done. But seeing how the Lord Almighty has so unkindly short-changed you in that department, and that you will be dead before I can saw it off, it isn’t worth my efforts. It is enough that you will die, and you will do so in pain, and very shortly the devil will have his own way with you, you fucking son of a bitch. May you be fucked with red-hot spikes and shit flames for eternity. Even that is too good for you.” The Chevalier spat in the man’s face, knowing he lacked the strength to wipe it away.

Renard looked like he wanted to reply, the ferocity on his spittle-covered face slowly giving way to the realization that he had but moments left. He began to look genuinely afraid. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, though whether to take in more air or to attempt to speak, the Chevalier did not know. With a final rattle of exhalation, he shuddered and was still, eyes still wide with the terror of oblivion.

The Chevalier’s knees nearly gave way in relief when he realized his enemy was dead. Suddenly, he recalled why he was here. _My God! Philippe! My love!_ He turned his attention to the Duc d’Orleans, who, once Renard had left him, had slid off the table and collapsed bonelessly to the floor. The Chevalier raced to his side. He crouched over Philippe, who looked to be unconscious. “Oh my God, Philippe? Philippe, wake up. Shit, please, darling, wake up!” Murmuring his name in panic, shaking his shoulders and patting his cheeks gently but insistently, the Chevalier tried to wake him. His skin felt slick with sweat. _Get the gag off him, you fool! He cannot respond to you like that, and he probably can't breathe either!_ His thoughts spurred him to action, and he quickly untied the damp pieces of cloth that had been wrapped over Philippe’s mouth and tore them away. However, even when they were removed, the Chevalier could see that there was still fabric stuck between Philippe’s teeth. He tried to coax his lover’s jaw open but it was tightly clenched, and his eyes remained shut. _God, Philippe, come on. Don’t do this to me now. You have to be alright. Look at me, love. PLEASE._

“Lorraine!” Fabien’s disembodied voice drifted down the stairwell, catching his attention. 

“Down here, Fabien!” the blonde man called out, his voice sounding strained with fear. “Help me, please!” 

A guard soon appeared at the doorway, with Fabien close on his heels. They had heard the gunshots from upstairs and followed the sound to the kitchen, where the doorway to the stairs was open. Now, with pistols drawn, they both entered the cellar, a quick glance revealing that there were two dead bodies on the stone floor. And there were two other, more familiar figures: the Duc d’Orleans, who was bound and lying upon the floor, semi-naked, and unmoving; and the Chevalier who was kneeling next to him, frantically hovering over him and calling his name in anguish. Fabien turned to the guard, who was staring in shock at the scene, and ordered, “Send a rider to fetch the carriage, at once. We need to get Monsieur to safety with all haste. And tell whomever you send to continue back to Versailles at top speed. A doctor must be summoned and be ready to attend to His Highness when we arrive.” 

“Yes sir!” 

“And Lieutenant?” Fabien stopped the other man from leaving, and gave him one further command. “No one else is to come into this room until the carriage arrives. The other men should be searching and securing the building and perimeter.”

The guard nodded a quick assent and then fled the room. The carriage had been left at the wooden bridge almost two miles back, again to prevent the arousal of suspicion. It would only take a rider some minutes at a gallop to inform the driver, and then twenty or so for the carriage to find its way to the house. They could hopefully depart in half an hour at most. Once the other man had departed, Fabien rushed to the Chevalier and the still form of the Duc d’Orleans.

“Is he hurt, Lorraine?”

“I don’t know!” the Chevalier's words came tumbling out almost hysterically. “He won’t respond to me. I’m not even sure he knows I’m here. There’s still cloth in his mouth; he’s biting down so hard, I can’t remove it. I’m afraid he’s going to choke. That bastard… God, that fucking bastard...” He indicated the dead kidnapper, whose member still hung out of his trousers, flaccid in death. Fabien winced, feeling nauseous. It was not difficult to deduce what had been occurring, given the prince’s current state of dishabille. And if _that_ was the case, Fabien regretted he could not kill the man himself. It clearly had been quicker than he deserved.

Upon a closer look, Fabien saw that Philippe was terribly pale, with sweat beading upon his brow. He was tensed up, his eyes squeezed shut and inhaling in very small, rapid gasps. He realized that Philippe was technically ‘awake’ - his body could not be so rigid, if he was totally unconscious - but he was not ‘aware.’ The prince looked to be bracing for whatever was about to be inflicted on him, and seemed to have mentally removed himself to be able to endure it. 

“He’s in shock," he attempted to explain. "Talk to him _calmly_ , Lorraine, and try to bring him around. I’ll start getting the ropes off him. It will help when he can take in more air and his blood can flow freely.” Fabien took out his dagger from its sheath and started with the ropes around Philippe’s chest, to aid his breathing. That was the most vital thing. Next, he moved to the ankles and knees - those bonds would be easiest to cut through, and would give the Chevalier time to rouse him. With the position he was currently lying in, Philippe would have to be moved in order to reach the ropes on his wrists. Fabien did not wish to risk it until the choking hazard was gone, lest in his efforts, Philippe vomit or otherwise lose physical control while the knife was at work. 

“Darling…” The Chevalier said softly, caressing his lover’s terribly bruised cheek as tenderly as he could. He tried to keep his voice steady as he bent his head closer to Philippe’s. “Mignonette, I’m here. You’re safe now. Please, Philippe, I need you to look at me. I know you can hear my voice; I need you to open those beautiful eyes for me. I have waited so long to see them again. I’m right here beside you.” It took a moment or two of coaxing, but Philippe’s eyes finally opened painfully slowly. “There you are,” the blonde murmured with a shaky smile, as Philippe’s gaze flickered unsteadily around the room. “It’s me, your Chevalier… it’s alright now. You are safe with me. My love, I need you to relax your jaw for me. Relax, so I can get this out. You will feel so much better once it’s gone, won’t you. Come on, then, there you go. It’s going to be alright, my sweet Mignonette.” As his lover tenderly stroked his face, Philippe slowly allowed his teeth to unclench. The Chevalier gently worked the sodden handkerchief out of Philippe’s mouth as soon as he saw the opportunity. “Good. Very good, love. Let me just… there we are, that’s better,” he soothed, quickly tossing the large wad of fabric aside so that it would neither touch Philippe’s skin nor be in his sight. 

Once his mouth was free, Philippe nearly retched, coughing painfully and convulsively, his body reacting so forcefully that Fabien had to stop sawing at the restraints for fear of accidentally poking him. As the fit subsided, the prince attempted to take in shallow amounts of air. “Ph’lippe?” he whispered, his pale green eyes trying to stay focused upon the beautiful face above him.

The Chevalier nearly came apart. It was so rare to hear his first name on Philippe’s lips, the name that they shared. It was usually saved for the throes of passion in the privacy of their bedroom. It was spoken now, broken but comprehensible, and it meant that his love recognized him. “Yes, Mignonette. I’m here… your Philippe is here," he whispered, smiling gently as he stroked Philippe's tangled raven hair. "Everything is alright - you are safe now, my angel.” 

“Uhn… untie me… please…can’t b… breathe...”

“Fabien is working on it, darling. He’s already got most of the ropes off you.”

“F-f-f’bien?” Philippe stammered, appearing confused. 

“I’m right here, Your Highness,” Fabien said, his voice sounding astonishingly gentle, almost fatherly. “I’m cutting you loose, and I only have a little bit more to go. But before we try to move you, can you tell me, Monsieur, if you are injured? I do not wish to cause you pain, if I can avoid it.” 

“Nnnuh… dun f-f-feel any p-p-pain,” Philippe managed to say.

That wasn’t exactly the answer Fabien had been looking for. Lack of sensation did not mean nothing was wrong; it likely meant that the prisoner had been tied so tightly that numbness had set in, so if there were any broken bones, it was possible they might be unknown until the ropes holding them in place were removed. Fabien dearly did not wish to aggravate any wounds Philippe might have sustained in captivity. But the prince did not seem capable of a real answer right now, and he could not leave the poor man bound in this cruel way any longer. “Very good, Your Highness. Now, we are going to turn you to the side just a little bit, and you’ll be free in a moment. I want you to try and remain as still as you can. Do not attempt to help us; let the Chevalier and I do the work for you.” Fabien met the Chevalier’s eye, and the blonde nodded in understanding.

Fabien turned Philippe slightly onto his side while the Chevalier gently shifted his lover into his lap, hoping to make him comfortable and giving Fabien better access to cut the ropes binding Philippe’s hands and arms tightly behind his back. As the inspector worked, the Chevalier focused on keeping Philippe responsive and calm. “My love, can you talk to me a bit more? Are you certain you are not hurt too badly?”

“N-n--uh…” Philippe whimpered slightly. Fabien carefully sliced through the bindings and Philippe’s arms fell limply from their restraints. Without even realizing it, he moaned at the ache of his muscles and the pins and needles of the blood beginning to flow through his limbs once again. Inhaling shakily, he said, “Th-thank you… thas… that’s…b-better.” In an effort to take in more oxygen that was neither hindered by the stress of his bondage nor his mouth being blocked, his respiration began to increase and he felt his heart rate speed up. The spots returned to his vision. 

“There you are, love,” the Chevalier gently soothed, cradling Philippe protectively while Fabien pulled the ropes off. “That’s all of it. Can you feel that, my sweet? You’re free. Can you move at all?”

“No…” Philippe said, attempting to lift his head. In doing so, he seemed to become agitated. “Oh… nno... Can’t... please c-cov…”

“What?”

“Cover…me…” he said, with a hint of an embarrassed blush appearing in his pasty complexion. 

Suddenly the Chevalier understood. Philippe’s lower half was still exposed from the attempted (God, he was desperate to believe it was only attempted) rape. “Oh! I see. Of course, dearest. I’m so sorry, I understand now. Fabien, that blanket over there... help me cover him.” He did not think it wise to try and pull up Philippe’s breeches. For one thing, the lacings had been cut, so they would not have stayed up any way; for another, he had gotten a glimpse of the raw welts upon his lover’s bottom. Anything pressing against those would surely cause pain. And that was only what he had been able to see. He lowered his voice, as he continued. “We should be careful - I don’t know how much that bastard hurt him before we got here.” Fabien got up and approached the makeshift mattress to retrieve the blanket lying upon it, stepping over the smaller kidnapper’s body to do so. 

“He didn’t…” Philippe managed to say. “You stopped it… him…b’fore... didn’t r-r-rape me…just t-touched...and hit...” 

“Shh, Mignonette. No more. It’s over. He won’t touch you ever again.” The Chevalier was immensely relieved to hear that he had been in time, but he was growing concerned about Philippe’s continued difficulty in speaking, and he still wasn’t tracking very well visually. The prince had no history of a stammer, or any other speech difficulty that had ever reared its ugly head during times of stress. He decided to chalk it up to the shock, for Philippe was beginning to shiver.

“This one is still alive.”

“What?” The Chevalier looked up and saw Fabien, blanket in hand, kneeling over that smaller man’s body, studying it. The way the body was positioned, the head was turned towards the Chevalier and Philippe, but what a terrible sight it was. The face had been all but smashed in, and there was so much blood, he barely even looked human anymore. 

“This boy. He’s mortally hurt, but he still draws breath.”

“I didn’t even see him when I came in. I was too focused on that bastard,” the Chevalier spat, inclining his head towards Renard’s corpse. "That brute must have been the one to do that to him. I wonder why?”

Philippe had suddenly regained a bit of focus when Fabien had spoken. Somehow the words had cut through the fog in his mind. “M-m-mathieu…isn’t dead?” he asked hoarsely. His teeth were beginning to chatter.

“What, darling?” the Chevalier turned his attention back to his lover, surprised at this sudden level of clarity.

“Th’ boy…”

The Chevalier looked closer at the figure in question. The youth with the smashed-in face had a pistol in his hand. The realization dawned on him, that there had been two shots, and only one had come from his own gun. The hole in the big man’s back had been made at an angle, coming from below. “Oh my God, his gun…" he murmured aloud, in disbelief. "He was the one who fired the first shot! It had to have been him.” Then, to his horror, he suddenly saw a swollen, bloodied eye blink at him, and the gash of a mouth start moving. "Jesus Christ! Is he conscious?"

“Lemme see 'm…” Philippe shakily lifted his head from the Chevalier lap.

The Chevalier pushed him back down. Philippe was in no condition to move around, nor did he need to see such an awful sight. It would only distress him more. “Philippe, no. You need to be still right now,” he said sternly, trying to keep his lover from hurting himself.

“P-please, let me...” Philippe attempted to turn himself in order to better see the fallen figure, softly groaning at the strain on his body. Catching sight of the figure who had attempted to save him and realizing that he was, in fact, still alive, he gasped. "M-mathieu?"

"H'ness..." Everyone went still. The rasping, slurred voice, came from the young man, and there was no living person in the room that was not astonished that he was still capable of speech, if one could still call it that. The Chevalier was too stunned to prevent Philippe from talking with him.

“...H'ness… not… hurrr…?” Mathieu struggled to say, blood burbling from his nose (what remained of it) and lips, and even, it seemed, his eyes. His jaw was badly damaged and teeth had been knocked out. His forehead appeared almost concave. This condition was not survivable. Every labored breath was a fight against the encroaching shadow.

“N-no,” Philippe managed to answer through his shivering. "M' fine..." He was pained at the sight of his young captor's ruined face. 

“F’give meh… M’shieur… try t’ do… wight…”

“I forgive you… th-thank you. God b-bless you, Mathieu.”

Mathieu closed his swollen eyes and was able to muster a small smile on his broken face before his breathing shuddered to a halt. Fabien checked for a pulse in the boy’s neck, and finding none, shook his head to confirm that his life was over. Philippe inexplicably felt tears in his eyes. “P-poor child… M’ so sorry…” he moaned softly, his breath hitching in his throat. 

“He’s not suffering any more. Shh, there, there. Calm yourself, my love.”

“He was… w-w-wanted to help me… poor boy.” Fabien brought the blanket to Philippe, and he and the Chevalier carefully covered the prince’s trembling form, preserving his modesty. It did not go unnoticed by the inspector that the death of this young man was sending the already traumatized Duc d’Orleans into a downward spiral. He noticed the physical deterioration before the Chevalier did; the blonde was focused on comforting his lover’s emotional distress.

“Shhh. He did help. He helped save you and he's at peace now,” the Chevalier was saying.

“C-c-can’t breathe… untie me…”

“Darling, what do you mean?” the Chevalier replied, confused. They had already had this conversation... hadn't they? “We _have_ untied you; all the ropes are off. You’re completely safe, Mignonette. This is just a blanket. We’re just trying to keep you warm now.”

“Think I... m-m-ight… faint...” Philippe murmured in an airy whisper, barely coherent. "Can't... breathe..." The Chevalier felt his heart race in alarm as he noticed that the little color Philippe still had was rapidly draining from his face. Even his lips were paling, and his eyes were fluttering, as if he was struggling to hold on to consciousness. 

“No, no, no. Mignonette, I need you to stay awake now. Please. I know you don’t feel well, my love, but you must stay awake. Just until we can make sure you’re alright. Please!” Shifting the prince into a more comfortable position and making sure the thin blanket was tucked around him to preserve some warmth, he gently tapped the other man’s ashen cheek, trying to rouse him again. _Shit. He’s so cold. Why is he so cold? This room is so stuffy; he was sweating buckets when I first touched him. Why does he now feel like he’s been in the snow for hours? Wait... he's not shivering anymore. He's cold but he's not shivering anymore? What does that mean? God, where the hell is that carriage?!_ Silently, Fabien removed his light cloak and added it to the meager cover upon Philippe’s body. It wasn’t much, but it could only help conserve his body heat. 

The Chevalier felt himself unraveling. Philippe was moving his lips now, but nothing comprehensible was coming out. Why did it feel like he was slipping away? That wasn't possible. Not after everything he'd been through to find him. “Come on, Philippe. Don’t go fainting on me just yet. We’re going to take you home. Stay with me, just a bit longer.”

Philippe let his eyes drift close, and he gave his mind over to the swirling grey mist that was seeping into it. He thought he heard the Chevalier’s voice pleading with him to stay awake, but his body felt so heavy and numb... his heart ached over young Mathieu’s painful sacrifice for him... he was so very, very tired...


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got very long, so I chose to divide it and publish the next part separately.

The ride to Versailles was interminable. The Chevalier crouched on the floor of the carriage, supporting Philippe’s unconscious form laid out upon the seat to make sure that the bumps and rattles of the journey did not jostle him too much. Fabien had remained behind with the rest of the men, sending two guards along with the carriage as an escort back to the palace. He assured the Chevalier that he would follow shortly, once he arranged for the bodies of the two kidnappers to be transported, and made sure the house was secure. Philippe had not stirred at all, despite gentle caresses and nonstop conversation from his worried lover. All the Chevalier wanted was some sign that Philippe was going to be alright, even if it was just to tell him to shut up. At the very least, his breathing had become more even once he had passed out, so that was some small thing. But the Chevalier would not be at ease until the prince awakened and showed that he was fully himself. He prayed it would be soon; this abnormal ‘sleep’ was growing more terrifying the longer it persisted. 

He refused to entertain the possibility that Philippe would not wake up.

When they pulled into the courtyard, the escorting guards dismounted and carefully helped the Chevalier get Philippe out the carriage door. One guard, being well-muscled and over six feet tall, was designated as the one to carry the smaller man; Philippe fit neatly in his arms, like a sleeping babe. The Chevalier fleetingly felt a stab of jealousy - he wished he could carry his lover himself, but they were too close in stature, and they had to go up stairs to the Orleans suite. He could technically carry Philippe a little ways, and had done so before, but that was in the space of their bedroom, and Philippe had been consciously able to partly support himself, making sure the Chevalier didn’t have to bear his entire weight. The heat and adrenaline of passion had helped, too. As slender as the Duc d’Orleans was, right now, with his body completely limp and having to make sure to keep him warmly wrapped up in the blanket, the Chevalier would still have needed help moving the prince such a distance. At least this way, he knew Philippe could be comfortable in the short journey to his own bed, and it wasn’t like he would be any the wiser of whose arms he was in. The Chevalier pushed his jealousy aside; it wasn’t important right now. 

The other guard having been sent to alert the Sun King of their arrival, the two men quickly brought their royal burden to the Orleans rooms. When they reached the doors, the Chevalier raced forward to alert the Princess Palatine. He burst into the sitting room, calling for her. “Liselotte? He’s here!”

She jumped up from her position on the chaise, gasping as the guard brought her unmoving husband in. “My God…” she breathed. She hurried to the doors to his sealed-off bedroom and flung them open. “Bring him in here; put him on the bed. Be careful!” she ordered.

Philippe was carefully laid upon his bed by the guard. But as they settled him, the Chevalier warned, “Wait! He needs to be on his side!” The man looked at him in surprise. “Trust me,” the Chevalier continued, more quietly. “He will be more comfortable… it will be better if he is on his side.” The blonde was thinking about the welts upon his lover’s hindquarters; he knew those would cause discomfort when Philippe awoke. He would probably have to wait until the doctor arrived to know what other injuries those brutes had bestowed on his innocent Mignonette’s body. But he could at least be proactive with the knowledge he currently had. As the guard arranged the prince so that he was facing the edge of the bed, the Chevalier crawled onto the other side of the mattress, scooting up next to his lover. He placed a pillow discreetly behind the small of his back, just in case Philippe attempted to turn while in his stupor.

Once the Duc d’Orleans was settled, the guard was dismissed, with great thanks. As soon as he was out of the room, the Chevalier leaned closer to Philippe, tenderly stroking his dark, messy hair and talking reassuringly to him. “We’re home, love. You are in your own bed, and I’m here with you. Nothing more to fear, so you can wake up any time now, Mignonette.”

“Philippe?” Liselotte whispered, furrowing her brow in worry over her husband and trying to determine if he was aware of anything at all. When he didn’t stir, the Chevalier gently pressed his lips to the dark head, softly continuing his pleas for him to awaken. The bruises upon his face made Liselotte’s heart tighten; those who had taken him swore they were not going to hurt him, yet here was the evidence of their lies! She instinctively felt his pale forehead, to check for fever. The coolness of his skin was as alarming as febrility would have been - more so, in fact, since it was so unexpected. “Why is he cold? What’s happened to him, Lorraine?”

“Fabien said he’s in shock…” the Chevalier said quietly, unable to tear his eyes from Philippe’s heartbreakingly-beautiful face. “But he’s breathing easier now. And I think… maybe his color is a little better than it was?” Liselotte stared at him; she had no way of knowing if it was better, and if this was ‘better’... God in heaven, what on earth had he looked like earlier?

This was doing no good; Liselotte couldn’t just stand there helplessly. She strode to the door and called into the sitting room. “Fetch hot water, and clean towels!” she ordered sharply to the two maidservants who had been attending her before the chaos had begun. “Stoke the fire and get this room warmed up. Hurry!” Madame did not usually assume such a stern tone with the household; this situation was a unique one. No servant would have dared hesitate to heed her commands, and having witnessed the Duc d’Orleans, battered and insensible, carried like a child into his bedroom, they were spurred more quickly into action. One ran to fetch the asked-for items, the other hurried into the bedroom to attend to the dark fireplace.

Louis suddenly burst into the suite, having been informed of his brother’s return during his audience with the newly-arrived Spanish ambassador. He had abruptly but diplomatically ended the interview with the excuse that he had just received news that the Duc d’Orleans had met with a nasty accident while out riding, and was awaiting a doctor’s care. The ambassador, oblivious to the goings on of the past few days, plainly saw the Sun King’s worry over his sibling, and graciously withdrew so that he might attend to the injured prince, finding the French sovereign’s familial concern a very admirable trait. 

The relief Louis felt to see his brother back at home quickly shifted to fear at his stillness. Philippe was a stomach sleeper. Or rather a sprawler. He had been ever since childhood, an involuntary attempt to take up space somewhere in a world that demanded he shrink himself for the sake of his brother. To see him so...small...lying mostly facing to one side, white and inert upon his pillow - that was unnatural for him. He would only be resting that way if he was injured or ill. 

“Did they hurt him?” Louis demanded. “Is he unconscious? How long has he been this way?”

The Chevalier repeated the story for the King. “He passed out shortly after we untied him, Your Majesty. Marchal said it was shock, something about his breath being hindered and his blood not being able to flow properly. It seemed to improve for a brief moment, once we got the ropes and the gag off him, but then he became distressed and confused, and he was unable to stay awake.”

Louis approached the bed and sat upon it carefully. He picked up his brother’s hand, wincing at its clammy feeling. He then noticed the ligature marks and rope burns that encircled Philippe’s delicate wrists. Louis felt rage quicken in his stomach once more - that damn picture floated into his unwilling mind. The proof of its image was here: these marks and the flecks of dried blood that marred his pale skin, and the small areas of redness at the corners of his mouth from where it had been irritated by tight fabric used to silence him. _Those bastards… Brother, what have they done to you? Forgive me, Philippe... I should have gotten you back sooner. I should have done more…_

His racing thoughts were interrupted as he heard the Chevalier softly speaking. “Can you hear me, Mignonette? Your brother, the King, is here beside you… and our dear Liselotte. And I’m holding you in my arms right now, to keep you warm, my darling. Can you feel me?”

“We are right here beside you, Philippe,” Liselotte supplied, in a calm, motherly tone. The maidservant had brought a basin of warm water and some clean linen towels. The Princess Palatine took one small cloth and dipped it into the water, wrang it out, and placed it gently on her husband’s forehead, hoping the warmth would seep into his body and revive him a bit. As she smoothed it out upon his brow, she murmured, “I know you are tired, dear heart. But we are with you. You are safe at home now. Take your time… we’ll be waiting for you to come back to us whenever you’re ready.”

Louis wanted to say something as well, to use his own voice to help encourage Philippe to return from whatever dark place he was lost in, if that was even possible. But he struggled to articulate his deepest feelings, especially when they involved someone he loved with all his heart. It was hard to speak freely when he always had to be so careful and circumspect when expressing himself. Even when poor Henriette lay dying so painfully, he had been struck nearly dumb, but Philippe… he had known just what to say. Despite every sad and hurtful thing that had passed between them, he had found the right words to help comfort his wife as she struggled against the shadow of death. _He might be younger, but there are matters in which he is wiser than I._ Louis thought about what Philippe might say now, if the roles were reversed. _He’d talk about memories...he always reminds me of where we’ve been, how he’s had my back… when have I had his?_

As the Chevalier and Liselotte petted Philippe, anxious to make sure he felt loved and safe in spite of his absence of awareness, Louis gripped his hand and tried to warm it. Words finally came, first hesitantly, then slowly they began to pour out. “Brother, do you remember when we were children, when you came down with smallpox? I think you were just barely seven years old at the time. You were taken away to be isolated at the Palais Royale; Mother and I were not able to be near you for weeks. I was furious that I wasn’t allowed to see you… one of the very few matters where I could not get my own way. I remember pitching quite the tantrum when my advisors refused to let me go to you. I missed you so much, and I was worried about you. Mother was so fearful; she didn’t wish to distress me, but I knew how serious the illness was, and she feared that we might lose you. I thought you would be lonely with only the nurses around, and forced to stay in bed all day, so I wrote you a story…” Liselotte and the Chevalier exchanged covert glances of surprise at this reminiscence. Neither wanted to interrupt, because it seemed as important for the King to speak of this memory as it was for Philippe to hear it, if he _could_ hear it. 

Louis went on. “Do you remember that? It was about the little family of rabbits in the gardens at Fontainebleau we saw that summer, only a few weeks before you were taken ill. You were so fond of them. I still recall the day you managed to coax one of them to take some greens from your hand…” Louis trailed off, also remembering how his little brother had been able to quietly pet the tiny creature for a few minutes, a reward for his patience and gentleness. That is, before Louis, jealous of Philippe’s enchanting pastoral moment, had tried to approach it as well, and accidentally startled it away. _That wasn’t my fault; it was a wild animal. I didn’t mean to frighten it, but Philippe was lucky to have even a brief moment to be so close._ “I heard that you felt better when you received the first story, so I sent a new chapter every other day by messenger, as I could. I hoped they would make you smile, and give you something to look forward to when you recovered… when you could see the rabbits once more, and we could be together…”

“I remember…” Philippe whispered. Abruptly, everyone leaned forward, holding their breath, no one entirely sure if he had really spoken or not.

“What?” Louis managed to blurt, hardly daring to hope. 

“I still have them…” Philippe continued, his eyes still closed, speaking dreamily. “The stories… in a box at Saint-Cloud...I loved them; I read each one over and over from my sickbed.”

“Philippe, darling, can you open your eyes for us?” the Chevalier asked gently, his heart pounding.

“Oh… I thought they were…” Philippe took a moment, but his light eyes, looking more grey than green currently, slowly drifted open and he blinked up at the three familiar faces that immediately filled his sight: his brother, his wife, and his lover. All gathered around him as he lay upon his bed, all touching him carefully in some way. _What’s happening? Is… is this about to be some kind of orgy? Because I do not think I want that with this particular company…there are too many women and too many siblings present for such a thing._ He felt disoriented. “Brother?” he took in Louis, who sat next to him. _Why does he look so frightened?_

“Thank God,” Louis exhaled. He smiled in relief, and squeezed his brother’s hand. To his embarrassment, he blinked away tears that had sprung readily to his eyes at the sound of Philippe's voice. He prayed no one saw.

“Are you back with us, Mignonette?” the Chevalier asked, stroking Philippe’s cheek with the back of his fingers. He smiled lovingly, but his voice was filled with concern, which confused the prince further.

“Back? Where’d I go?”

“You’ve been… unresponsive for quite some time, my dear.”

“Really? How strange...” Philippe began to try to sit up, but both Liselotte and the Chevalier thwarted him.

“Wait just a minute!” Liselotte rebuked him sternly. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Philippe looked at her, perplexed. She looked terribly worried, too. _What is the matter with everyone?_ “I’m... very thirsty. I would like a drink of water. Is that alright?” he asked innocently, not sure if he had done something to make everyone treat him so oddly. “Please?” he added as an afterthought.

“I shall get it for you,” his wife insisted. “You stay put. Lorraine, add another pillow so he doesn’t have to sit up on his own.” She shot the Chevalier a no-nonsense look that easily said, _If you even think of letting him try to get up right now, I’ll toss you out on your rump!_

“I don’t need…” Philippe started to say, but his lover gently eased an extra pillow behind his head, slightly raising his upper body a bit more. “Why won’t you let me sit up?” he asked, as Liselotte bustled back over to him with a glass of cool water in her hand. He murmured a confused “Thank you,” as he reached for it.

It was at that moment, when the sleeve of his shirt rode up upon his outstretched arm, that he saw his wrist.

The glass slipped from his fingers and crashed to the floor. “Oops!” Liselotte lightly said, ready to brush off the fumble as an accident. “We’ll clean that up right away… Philippe?”

Her husband was staring in horror at his wrist, specifically at the raw wounds that encircled it. Some of the marks looked like blisters, caused by friction; others looked like cuts. They ran deep, and some had bled in spots. His chest began to ache as he remembered… he looked at his other wrist and saw matching wounds. His hands started to tremble.

“Brother?”

“Mignonette? Talk to me, love,” the Chevalier said urgently, as he saw Philippe’s rising panic. When Philippe had first spoken in response to Louis’s story and opened his eyes, the Chevalier had simply thought the apparent confusion he showed was a result of passing out in one place and waking in another. But it was becoming clear that for a blessed few minutes, Philippe had had no clue that he had just been rescued from days of captivity. And now it was all crashing back upon him. “Philippe, talk to us, please!”

“I was tied up…” Philippe whispered, staring at his wrists and remembering the feel of the ropes binding him. “ _They_ tied me up…”

“Yes, darling,” the Chevalier admitted. “They did. But they are gone now. They can never hurt you again.”

“I was tied up and I couldn't fight back. Renard was going to… he tried to...” Philippe stammered as the details of that terrible assault now came flooding back to him.

“He _failed_ , sweetheart,” the Chevalier insisted. “Look at me, Philippe,” he commanded gently, guiding the raven-haired man’s face to meet his gaze. The prince looked at the beautiful blonde curled beside him on his bed. His blue eyes radiated ferocity and love, and a promise that he would never allow anyone to harm him ever again. “That awful man is dead. I made sure of it. He is in hell, where he belongs. And we have that scoundrel, Etienne Barrineau, in custody, as well.”

“He's been arrested? Thank God," Philippe sighed. He searched the Chevalier's face, piecing together the events of his rescue. "You saved me…”

“I came in at the right time.”

“Oh…” Philippe moaned, wincing. “And poor Mathieu…”

“Who is Mathieu?” Louis asked.

“One of the kidnappers,” the Chevalier replied. He lowered his voice a bit, observing that Philippe’s breathing was once more becoming ragged, and recalling with trepidation that it was right after that young man died that Philippe’s condition had worsened. “He apparently was sympathetic to Philippe and tried to help him. His vile companion killed him for it, and rather brutally. But he didn’t die right away. He stayed alive just long enough to help me kill the bastard, and to make sure Philippe was unharmed and in safe hands.” 

“He had a good heart… he was just very young… an artist,” Philippe murmured, the boy’s painful demise invading his mind. He brought his hand up to his eyes and pressed, hoping to drive away the image of his bloodied, smashed face. The only trouble was, that image existed behind his eyes. He knew it would join the thousands of terrible pictures he retained from the battlefield that troubled his sleep so often. "He did not deserve such a death."

“An artist? Then this Mathieu is the one that drew the picture?” Louis questioned, intending for the Chevalier to confirm the theory.

But Philippe looked up, grimacing at that. “You mean, Etienne really did send it to you? I wasn’t sure if he was serious about that. I thought he said so just to humiliate Mathieu, to discourage him from talking with me. He punished us both for that.”

“What do you mean, ‘punished’?” Louis asked, the word giving life to his anger once more.

“He did me no violence, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Philippe quickly shook his head. “He was just very… calculating with what he did. He got in my head, you know? When he decided I was talking too much with Mathieu, he took my voice - I was kept gagged, and I was not allowed to have food or drink unless he was present to give it to me. When I almost untied myself, he tied me more strictly, in order to make me regret my actions. He insisted that it was my fault that he had to be so cruel to me. He even threatened Lorraine and Liselotte to make me stop resisting.”

“He did?” Liselotte said anxiously. Her hand went to her stomach instinctively, though the Chevalier was the only one who noticed.

“He said, if I continued to be uncooperative, he would come after one of you to coerce me… and once he had you, he said I would watch... he wouldn’t stop Renard from…” Philippe squeezed his eyes shut as he felt his stomach churn upwards into the base of his throat, and his hand drifted to his bruised cheek. He pressed it, feeling not only its ache but also its heat. “From hurting you...the way he wanted to hurt me. The way he nearly...the way he tried...” He trailed off limply. He leaned back into the pillows, eyes still shut, his hand now moving to his forehead and he found he was sweating lightly. “I think… I think I’m going to be sick…” 

He felt everyone suddenly moving around him, shifting upon the mattress which made him feel sicker. He didn’t know who was holding his hair and who was supporting his back when he finally pitched forward and vomited. All he knew at that moment was someone had found a container for him to throw up in, and the only thing that he actually expelled from his empty stomach was watery bile. Even when he had nothing left to bring up, his body continued to dry-heave for several minutes, trying to get rid of _something_ trapped inside of him, possibly the memories of the cruelty he had experienced. 

Voices traveled to his ears as he tried to master himself. 

“Fetch some more water, quickly!” 

“Oh, my poor darling. Easy now, love. You're alright; everything will be alright.” 

“The doctor is here, Your Majesty.” 

“What the hell took him so long?” 

“The first doctor the messenger visited was not at home - he was called away to some emergency or other. So another physician had to be found. But he is quite capable and learned.” 

“Well, what is he waiting for? Get him in here!” 

“No…” Philippe tried to interrupt, opening his eyes and finally taking in the scene. Liselotte held the porcelain wash basin that he had thrown up in, Louis was standing and addressing an older gentleman with Bontemps near the door. He could only deduce it was the Chevalier supporting him from behind and attempting to hold his tangled hair away from his sweaty face. No one seemed to heed him.

“Your Majesty, this is indeed an honor. But please forgive me, Sire; you should not be in the room with Monsieur so obviously ill. The risk of contagion-” 

“Sir! You are here to examine my brother, not to lecture me. Do not dare mention such trifles to me now! I am not leaving.”

“I do not need a doctor!” Philippe finally managed to shout, mustering up all of his energy to do so. 

Finally, he had everyone’s attention. With a shaky breath, he tried to explain in a more reasonable tone, which was difficult, given that his nose was running slightly from his convulsive dry-heaving. “I appreciate your efforts to attend to me, Monsieur,” he said, addressing the doctor. “But I am afraid I do not need your attentions at this time. I am very sorry to have troubled you; I will see that you are compensated for the inconvenience.”

“Philippe,” Louis said warningly. “You _are_ going to be examined by the doctor. This is not up for debate.”

“No,” Philippe insisted, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

“You just expelled the contents your stomach, and this after being unconscious for several hours. You are going to be examined!”

“So I fainted,” Philippe shrugged, growing frustrated at his brother’s obstinacy. “You try being tied up for the better part of three days, see how you feel afterwards. Under the circumstances, I think I’m entitled to a little swoon. As for my stomach… I have not had much to fill it. I believe I am dehydrated… nothing more.”

“Would you wait outside for a moment, sir?” Liselotte said tightly to the doctor. She pointedly looked at Bontemps and he diplomatically guided the befuddled physician out of the bedroom. As soon as the door closed, she turned on her husband. “Are you mad? You’ve been missing for days! Have you seen yourself? You cannot refuse medical attention. Why on earth are you being so glib about this?”

“I’m not hurt, Liselotte! A little shaken and a bit banged up, I’ll admit, but there is nothing wrong with me that a hot bath and a decent night’s sleep won’t fix. I don’t need a doctor to tell me that.” 

Louis exhaled in exasperation. “Brother, this is foolishness. We need to know with certainty that you are well.”

“I say that I am well enough, and I will not suffer being poked and prodded without reason by a second-choice physician.” 

“Are you afraid of what he’ll tell us?” the Chevalier spoke up quietly. Philippe turned slightly to face his lover, and was shocked to see how upset he looked. 

“What do you mean?”

“Philippe, have you forgotten what was happening before I arrived in that room?” the Chevalier murmured, his eyes filled with pain, which sent a knife into Philippe’s heart. “I _saw._ I saw what was being done to you… I was terrified for you, and furious at seeing you so mistreated. I don’t know if you recall, since you were in pretty bad shape at the time, but you took pains to assure me that _I had stopped what was happening."_ The words were pointed; the Chevalier, for the sake of everyone’s sensitivities, did not come right out and name the crime. But it was obvious to anyone with even the slightest bit of intuition. “Why don’t you want the doctor to examine you? You said I stopped it this time. But was there another time while you were in their custody? Is that what you’re afraid a doctor will reveal?”

“No! No. It’s not what you think,” Philippe murmured, shaking his head adamantly and feeling the filth of shame creep over his skin. Shame for being foolish enough to be abducted in the first place… for not being clever enough to escape… for having been unable to save himself and fight off his attacker... 

But most of all, for making the people in this room so miserable. “I don’t remember exactly what I said to you… that moment is rather fuzzy, and I know I wasn’t fully in command of myself. But it is true. Renard did not…” he flicked his eyes uneasily to his wife, then to his brother, who were both listening intently. With a slight tremble in his lip, he went on, “Renard did not violate me. Not at that moment, nor any other time. I am certain he would have if you and Fabien hadn’t shown up when you did. But you did stop him. That’s not to say he didn’t hurt me. I was… struck. And touched. But I was not...penetrated.” He shuddered. “I just want it to be finished…” he whispered, almost to himself.

Liselotte winced, understanding what her husband was trying to avoid saying, largely for her sake. “Philippe, please…” she whispered. “If you won’t allow the doctor to examine you for your own sake… at least do it for ours. Do you have any idea what it’s been like without you these past few days? How frightened we've been? Do you know what it felt like to see you brought in passed out like that, and not know if you would wake again? I know I do not only speak for myself. For the sake of everyone in this room who loves you…please, just humor us. Just let the doctor check you.”

Unable to meet anyone’s eyes, Philippe said guiltily, “I’m sorry. I'll allow him to look at me… I do not mean to cause anyone any further pain.” 

Instantly, he felt the Chevalier’s arms encircle him, felt the blonde head nuzzle his neck, and he melted into his lover’s arms, fighting not to lose his composure. Liselotte approached the two men upon the bed and added her own embrace. “Philippe, you are not causing anyone pain,” she said, gently contrite. “Please, forgive my scolding; it’s just so important that we know you are truly alright, so that we might better see to your comfort.” 

“It is only because we love you so, my darling,” the Chevalier supplied, his voice filled with tenderness. “You do understand that, don’t you? You know it’s because we love you?”

Standing outside of the embrace, feeling slightly awkward at seeing these intersecting strands of love surrounding his brother without being at odds with each other, Louis quietly added, “It does not have to be a long examination. It can be as little as ten minutes, provided you follow his instructions for your recovery. Your health is paramount. I need you to be well, brother.” Pausing a moment to consider what might be helpful, he yielded further. “We can wait outside, if you would prefer privacy…?”

The Chevalier frowned. He hoped the King was using that royal “we” because he did not want to leave Philippe’s side. His frown deepened when Liselotte asked, “Would that make it easier, Philippe? Would you like the doctor to examine you in private? Because it’s alright - you need not fear to ask us to step out.” _Maybe YOU can step out,_ the Chevalier thought, suddenly quite annoyed. _I need to be there for him._ Surely, Philippe would not dismiss him… not again, after all they had been through… after all they had promised each other. He waited for his lover to insist upon their presence, or at least his.

But Philippe, looking terribly guilty, affirmed it. “If you… if you all wouldn’t mind… just for a few minutes.” He didn’t seem to want to look at the Chevalier. _Fine, then,_ the blonde seethed. He broke his embrace abruptly and moved to scoot off the bed, so that he might leave the room altogether. _I saved your life, and you reject me immediately? Well, then I’ll just go back to my own rooms and get ready for tonight’s party, since I’m not needed here._

Before he had moved an inch, he felt Philippe grasp his shirt. “Please…” he begged, brokenly. “Please don’t be angry! I promise…” The Chevalier met his gaze, and he was struck by Philippe’s desperate eyes. He realized he had grossly miscalculated his reaction as the prince tried to explain. “I just… need to see how bad I am, first,” Philippe continued helplessly. “I will show you everything later on, afterwards. I swear I will… I just… I don’t know what it looks like. What I look like. I need a few minutes to… accept it… and get used to it… and come to terms with what happened. But please, don’t walk away angry. I can’t bear that. I don’t want you to leave me. Please, Philippe, don’t _leave._ ” His fingers tightened in the fabric of the Chevalier’s shirt, knuckles whitening with the fear of his lover abandoning him in disappointment.

At the sound of his given name once more on his lover’s lips, the second time in only a matter of hours, and completely unrelated to making love, the Chevalier felt his anger melting away, and remorse quickly replaced it. _You’re a fool, Lorraine!_ he berated himself. _You are looking for offense where there is none. Philippe doesn’t need this petty sort of drama - look how worried he is! And after all he has been through! He should be focusing on getting well, not on whether the simplest, most innocent request will vex you, you selfish twat._ Making sure to school his expression to one of tenderness and praying he had not shown any emotion that might hurt his lover and cause him more distress, he placed a warm hand upon Philippe’s face. “I am not angry, Mignonette,” he smiled in apology. “Forgive me for upsetting you so. I will wait right outside, if it is your wish; but no matter what, I promise you, I will not leave.”

“And when the doctor is finished, you’ll come right back?” Philippe wanted to confirm.

“Of course, my love. You’ll have to work harder than that to get rid of me,” the Chevalier chuckled, even as he felt the regret of his bitter thoughts. _Do better, Lorraine. This is new territory for both of you. Do not read so much into things, or you will ruin everything you have gained. Don’t lose him now, when you have just managed to get him back. Philippe needs love and care now, not accusations and shame._

“Let’s get the man in here,” Louis grumbled. “The sooner he gets started, the sooner he’ll be done.” The Chevalier got off the bed, but before he left the room, he gazed deeply into the pale green-grey eyes that he adored, and pressed a lingering, chaste kiss upon his damp brow. He made sure Philippe heard and understood as he confirmed once more, out loud, “Never forget it; _I love you, Mignonette._ ” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the autumn of 1647, at age seven, Philippe caught smallpox, but recovered and convalesced at the Palais-Royal. Young King Louis and his mother, the Regent, could not be in contact with Philippe, given the highly contagious nature of the disease. The existence of the "rabbit stories" is purely from my imagination, and because there is a dearth of brotherly fluff where Louis does nice things for Philippe, which just makes me sad. I truly think that Louis loved his brother, which was not often clear in the show, nor in history; Philippe was just such a wild card, and the legacy of the Fronde and his uncle Gaston tainted what their relationship should have truly been. Mamma did a lot of damage there.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, this chapter got really long. I am so sorry if it feels like filler. There will be some extra Monchevy tenderness in the next one; this one was getting from point A to point B.

Once the trio was out in the sitting area with Bontemps, the bedroom door closed and the doctor was alone with Philippe. Liselotte immediately set to work. She had determined not to be idle and instead began making arrangements for her husband’s comfort. She gathered the household servants, and with only the explanation that Monsieur was unwell, arranged for a hot bath to be prepared and food to be brought up to be served in their rooms. Unsure what might tempt Philippe’s delicate stomach so soon after his bout of nausea, she made sure that light broth-based soups and lighter fare would be the bulk of the menu, but added a few more substantial dishes, just in case he felt well enough to try them. If he couldn’t partake of those foods, she (and probably the Chevalier) would take care of eating them. Her appetite had come roaring back with a vengeance after two days of nervous anxiety that unsettled her digestion. Now that Philippe was safely home, she felt secure once more. He was safe, and he would recover, and all would soon be well again.

Louis approached the Chevalier, who was perched near the bedroom's doors, clearly anxious to return to his place by Philippe’s side. “I assume, Lorraine, that you will want to be excused from tonight’s celebrations,” he mentioned, almost casually.

“Ummm,” the Chevalier stammered, uncertain of what answer the King wanted. Truly, the fete he had planned was the furthest thing from his thoughts. He honestly didn’t give a damn if the party happened or not, despite all the work he had put into it. But would the King allow him to beg off in order to be with Philippe, or would he command him to attend? “If Your Majesty would not mind…”

“I do not mind,” Louis answered, smirking at how anxious the Chevalier was. “I know you have organized an excellent event for me, which I am certain will be a success. But I also know your heart is here, and I would feel easy knowing my brother was in your care.” Louis’s face grew serious. “I am deeply grateful for your heroics today, Lorraine. You have, this day, rescued him from danger and restored him to me. And this is not the first time you have proven your valor where Philippe’s safety was concerned. For that, you have my sincerest thanks and my unending appreciation. And I shall be rewarding you for your service to the Crown.”

“Forgive me, Sire,” the Chevalier murmured with a serious countenance. “There is only one thing I would ask as a reward.”

“Name it, and if it can be reasonably arranged, you shall have it,” the King assured him. He wondered what titles or property or funds the Chevalier would ask for, and who else he might have to inconvenience to make sure the man who saved his brother received what he thought he deserved.

To his surprise, the blonde did not ask for material things or honorifics. With a dark look in his blue eyes, the Chevalier said, “If it pleases Your Majesty, I would like five minutes alone with Etienne Barrineau.”

Louis studied him in silence for a long moment. Then, nodding, he said, “You shall have ten. Just… don’t kill him, alright?” he asked. “Before he is executed for treason, I myself have several things in store for Monsieur Barrineau, and I would hate if he missed a single one. Is ten minutes sufficient for your needs?”

“Absolutely, Sire.” The Chevalier had dared not ask for more, since the longer he was with the man, the more chance he _would_ kill him. Moderation was the key. 

“Then I shall arrange it, at your convenience.”

Smiling with grim satisfaction, the Chevalier bowed with true reverence. The King nodded back. In his mind he mused at the odd nature of the Chevalier’s relationship with his brother. Of course, he did not approve of two men having sexual relations - he could never condone such a thing. But Philippe and the Chevalier had been together since they were teenagers. And somehow, with all their ups and downs, they were content to be with each other. If it were not such a sin, Louis would be jealous of that sort of everlasting love, that constancy. He had shared his bed with many women, and loved a few of them, but nothing he had had came close to the level of continued passion and devotion his brother had with the Chevalier. What made it so easy for them? And if he thought about how tolerant Liselotte was of the relationship, it made his head spin…

The door to the bedroom opened, and the doctor appeared. With barely an acknowledgement, the Chevalier dove past the man to rejoin Philippe, who sat upon the bed now, with the old ratty blanket from the cellar around his shoulders. He looked utterly exhausted, and there was a look of melancholy in his eyes, but he gave his lover a wobbly smile as the blonde sat next to him.

“Doctor, how is my brother?” the King asked. Liselotte joined them, silently directing two servants to begin setting up Philippe’s small bathtub and to drape the inside with linen, while she listened to the doctor’s findings.

The doctor knew the barest details of the Duc d'Orleans’ attack, since he would have to diagnose the injuries presented. However, he was being paid well for discretion, and he had permission to address the three individuals closest to the prince. “Monsieur is suffering from some painful bruising, including large contusions on his hips and the majority of his right thigh - the result of a bad fall, he said. There are smaller, minor bruises scattered on his arms, legs, and torso, and there are several raw-looking welts upon his buttocks and lower back that look to have been made by some sort of instrument.”

“It was a leather belt,” Philippe spoke up blandly, from the bed. “I think.”

“But as much as they might sting, they are not too deep," the doctor continued, as if Philippe had not spoken. "Despite the nasty bruise on his face, Monsieur does not appear to be concussed, which is good. Nor did I feel any displacement of the ribs or any other broken bones, though he should try to sleep propped up for a few nights, to ensure that no fluid builds up in his lungs, for they have been under a bit of strain, and may themselves be a bit bruised. I elected not to bleed him at this time; his circulation has been interrupted and hindered for so long, I do not want to interfere as it corrects itself.” The doctor began to gather his meager belongings. “At this point, what Monsieur requires most is a great deal of rest. A good night’s sleep or two will do wonders. And I would recommend he avoid strenuous activity for at least a week. He is going to be quite sore for several days, and should bear that in mind before attempting anything beyond short walks. I gather he has been without proper food for some time, so care should be taken to reintroduce solids to his stomach.”

“Is there anything else, Doctor?” Liselotte asked.

“Just keep an eye on him, make sure he has plenty of rest and quiet, and if he develops a fever, or if he cannot keep down any food or drink in the next twelve hours, send for me at once.”

“You have our thanks, Monsieur,” the King said. “My valet will see you to your carriage, and ensure you receive your fee.”

“Again, it is my humble honor to serve you, Your Majesty,” the doctor replied, bowing magnanimously. As he straightened, he seemed to recollect something. “Oh, I nearly forgot!” Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a tiny vial and handed it to Liselotte. “Madame, just in case Monsieur’s mind is troubled, or he is in such discomfort that he cannot find rest, two drops of this will aid him to sleep. No more than that is needed. I would suggest it not be taken with wine, as that can exacerbate the effects.” She took it and nodded silently, and Bontemps escorted the doctor out. 

Once they were gone, Philippe shook his head vehemently. “No! I am not taking whatever that stuff is.”

Liselotte rolled her eyes. “I didn’t say anything! I’ll put it away; I don’t think it will be necessary either, but at least it’s here if we need it. I only took it from him because I thought he wouldn’t leave if I refused. Who knows, all of us might need a few drops tonight,” she muttered under her breath. 

“And just let the record show," Philippe muttered. "I _said_ all I needed was a good night’s sleep. How many livres did he just get paid to repeat what I already knew?”

“I’m delighted your righteous frustration is still intact, Mignonette,” the Chevalier said with a wry smile. He gave him a light peck on the cheek. “The doctor is gone - hurrah, it's all done, and in record time! Now let’s get your bath ready. Won’t that be nice?”

Philippe sighed, unable to match the Chevalier’s enthusiasm. He was just too tired. “I want the water hot. As hot as I can stand, if not more so.” 

“It’s being heated as we speak, dear,” Liselotte responded. “And I’ve ordered some food for you as well. Lorraine, would you grab a fresh nightshirt and dressing gown for Philippe?”

“Brother, you seem as though you are in capable hands,” Louis said shyly, as he watched the two blondes in his brother’s life bustle around the room, preparing for his convalescence. 

“I think so, brother,” Philippe smiled reassuringly, despite his weary eyes that still gave Louis concern. “You need to go prepare for your fete now, don’t you?”

“Forgive me,” Louis grimaced. “I have to put on a show for the Spanish, and make them feel welcome. But I shall check in on you later, after you have had a chance to refresh yourself. I hope I shall find you getting the rest you need.”

“I’ll be here; I don’t have much planned except for sleeping. I am very sorry I cannot attend the party,” Philippe frowned, looking genuinely remorseful. “Truly I am. I feel like I’m letting you down, but I fear I am not fit for socializing right now.”

“Oh, Philippe,” Louis sighed. “There will be other parties, far more important than this one. I am just grateful that you will be able to attend those at my side. I need to visit the chapel and give thanks to God that you have been brought home safely to me. My prayers were answered.”

“Brother, before you go, I was wondering… why were you speaking of the stories you wrote for me when I was little? You know, earlier, when I was… asleep?”

Louis paused a moment, then, wordlessly, took a crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket and dropped it onto Philippe’s lap.

“What is this?”

“Take a look.” As Philippe smoothed it out to look at the words, Louis explained. “I thought about those stories in the early hours of this morning, while writing that document. That, right there in your hands, is the worst thing to come from my imagination since those rabbit stories. It’s sloppy and babbling and a complete affront to statecraft. Mother, Mazarin, and even Colbert are all rolling in their graves.”

Philippe quickly scanned the paper, then looked up with shocked wide eyes. “My God… you did it? You rewrote the law? You would have yielded to their demands?”

“We don’t need to worry about it now. You’re safe.”

“But you still wrote it…”

“I… needed a backup plan. I’m glad I do not need to use it. I would have been terribly embarrassed to have it seen by anyone else, let alone made the law of the land. Just like those stories.” Louis shook his head in consternation. “You really kept them? Why? They were utter rubbish. I suppose, as a nine-year-old I could not have done anything much better, and they came from a good place in my heart, but it still makes me blush to think of their quality. Unimaginative, very basic little stories about very basic rabbits. Not exactly epic literature.”

“Perhaps not, but I loved getting them. It made me feel like you missed me, like I was still wanted…”

“Of course you were _wanted_!” Louis insisted with dismay. He never could understand why Philippe always felt this sense of being unloved or expendable. Maybe they were treated a bit differently growing up, but that was because Louis was carrying the burden of France upon his shoulders from the time he was four, and he had to be taught to rule! Philippe was lucky he never had to worry about such matters, or be stifled with such high expectations.

“Well, it’s hard to feel wanted when your family won’t come near you. I understand why it had to be so, and I know it was right and proper, but at the time, as sick and frightened as I was, it broke my heart. In the worst moments of fever, I thought I had done something wrong and been cast out. That is why the gift of those stories was so special to me. You were still thinking of me… you didn’t forget me or forsake me, despite all my childish fears.” Philippe bit his lip, and looked back at the document he held.

“And that’s why you’ve kept them for all these years? Surely you don’t still read them?”

“No. I just like knowing I have them. I like that you did that for me. You did this, too? For… me?” Philippe asked in awe, indicating the paper in his hands. This paper, which he understood would never see the light of day now, was written to save him; Louis would not have written it if he had not considered using it. He couldn’t quite believe it. “I don’t know what to say…”

“It’s… been difficult these past few days without you, brother.” Louis wanted to say more, how he could not have borne losing Philippe, how he would have carried that blame with him to his grave. How, if it had come to it, if it meant that Philippe would be released, he would have published that ridiculous ‘edict’ he had written in the wee hours of the morning as frustrated tears pooled in his eyes. How he loved his little brother, and how grateful he was that he was alive and well. He just did not have the words to communicate all of that, and he felt a burning in his throat. He worried that he might once more be on the verge of losing his composure, and he could not let that happen. If Philippe saw him distraught, it would upset him, and damn it all, his poor brother had been through enough without having to be mired down in the Sun King’s emotional stress as well. Placing a hand upon Philippe’s cheek, the one that was unbruised, he said, “I shall leave you to rest now, but I will be looking in on you later tonight. I shall try not to intrude,” he smirked, “but I know I shall not be able to sleep until I am satisfied that you have all you need.”

“Thank you, brother,” Philippe murmured. Silently, Louis let his hand drift from his brother’s cheek down to his shoulder, and gave it a reassuring squeeze, before he took his leave. He needed time to master himself before the night’s entertainment, when all eyes would be upon him, watching his every move.

* * *

With the departure of the King, Liselotte announced that the bath was nearly ready, as several servants came in with buckets of hot, steaming water to pour into the tub. 

Philippe looked nervous, and the Chevalier could not figure out why. “Are you sore, my love? Do you need any help with your clothes?”

“No, I… I can manage, but…”

“But what?”

“Please, just… don’t say anything when you see.”

Not having a clue what that meant, the Chevalier and Liselotte exchanged a look of worry, but agreed to the stipulation. Philippe let the blanket fall from his shoulders, and slowly pulled his tattered shirt over his head. He carefully stood up from the bed, and let his breeches drop to the floor, and used what was left of his shirt to shield his manhood from the eyes of his wife and lover, even though both were familiar with his naked body.

It took every ounce of self-control the Chevalier possessed not to cry out in horror; Liselotte could not stop herself from a sharp intake of air. The doctor’s description of bruises did not begin to match what they were looking at. Philippe’s left hip, and nearly the entirety of his right side, from knee to shoulder, were discolored. The contusions were dark, angry shades of purple and black, and enormous in their diameter. The Chevalier could only imagine how much they must hurt. _I was expecting little bumps and scrapes… but not this! These are practically sentient! Oh sweet Jesus, those fucking bastards…how dare they lay their filthy hands on my Philippe. How dare they injure him!_ He was grateful the King had granted him ten minutes with Etienne, because he would make _excellent_ usage of that time. 

The Chevalier realized that poor Philippe was standing there, humiliated and ashamed, eyeing them warily, gauging their reactions. He recalled what his lover had said earlier: 

_“I need to see how bad I am, first…”_

_“I don’t know what it looks like. What I look like.”_

_“I need a few minutes to accept it, and get used to it, and come to terms with what happened.”_

Philippe had known he was going to look bad, that he would be carrying marks from his ordeal, and that it would only add to the trauma of what he had been through. Those bruises were deep, and would take quite a while to fade. Every time he saw them, he would be forced to think of what had been inflicted upon him. 

“You don’t think I’m terribly ugly, do you?” Philippe whispered, his voice breaking through the Chevalier’s thoughts. The prince could not look at his lover for fear of seeing revulsion in his eyes.

His jaw dropped in dismay at the question. “No! How could I ever think such a thing?” the Chevalier said passionately, shaking his head. _Philippe must never believe such lies about himself, never!_ “You, ugly? Impossible. You are the rarest, most beautiful, sweetest creature in the world. You always have been, and you always shall be. The only ugliness I know of comes from the devils who dared to hurt you, and you are too fine to be tainted by their evil. There is nothing in this world that could ever make you ‘ugly,’ Philippe. Do you hear me?”

Philippe nodded, but the Chevalier was not satisfied yet. “Do you _believe_ me?”

“Yes,” the prince answered with a small voice.

“Then come here to your bath, Mignonette, and let me tend to you.” The Chevalier extended his hand, inviting Philippe to take it. And after a moment’s hesitation he did, gripping the Chevalier’s hand tightly as the blonde led him to the bathtub and helped him get in. He hissed a bit at the bite of the hot water as it met his rope burns, sore muscles, and welts, but it didn’t stop him from continuing to lower himself into the steaming bath. He had wanted it hot, to the point of burning. He let the water scald him, hoping it would draw out the filth from the past few days. Not just the outward dirt and sweat, but also the stuff he could feel inside, the familiar mental pain that was lurking in the corner of his heart, eager to claim him again.

Liselotte discreetly stepped away and began preparing for the food that was to arrive, allowing the Chevalier to tend to Philippe’s bath. The blonde carefully helped his lover wash his sore and battered body, his heart aching a bit more with every newly observed mark upon the alabaster skin. Small finger-sized blue-grey bruises. Areas where the ropes had pinched and pulled, and broken delicate capillaries just beneath the surface. The thinnest red line upon Philippe’s smooth white neck, where it looked as though something sharp had been dragged, just barely avoiding drawing blood. The Chevalier logged each of these images away in his mind. He would remember them when it came time to visit Barrineau in prison. How well he would remember!

Before the bathwater cooled too much, the Chevalier washed Philippe’s long, thick curls, currently a tangled mass. He gently let his fingers caress his lover’s scalp and hairline in the process. He was very careful, for Philippe was surprisingly tender-headed. Anyone who had ever seen him dressed and elaborately coiffed like a noblewoman would never imagine that even the simple act of detangling the natural waves of his hair made him fidget and flinch like a fractious child, and could even bring tears to his eyes. He could submit to it when the Chevalier wielded the comb; over the years his lover had learned how to do it without too much pulling. But even then, he needed to be in the right frame of mind - in fact, the state of Philippe’s hair was a good indicator of his mood. During the worst of his post-war depressions, his hair was a downright mess. He simply did not have the patience or the pain threshold to deal with it when he went to that dark place in his mind. And during their long separation, he had not had the Chevalier’s deft touch to even make the attempt. “Is this alright, my love?” he murmured after rinsing the lather from that gorgeous hair, taking a bit of extra time as he massaged Philippe’s head, but not just for cleaning purposes. He wanted to relish the chance to put his hands on his beloved once more, and there was nothing he loved more than to see all the myriad ways Philippe responded to his touch.

“Mmhmm,” Philippe softly answered, his eyes closed as he leaned back in the tub.

The Chevalier smiled to see Philippe beginning to relax, but a quick feel of the water told him that in a few more minutes it would be uncomfortably cool. “Mignonette, I think it might be time to get out of the tub, and get you dried off. We must make sure you stay warm. I will be happy to continue this in the comfort of your bed, darling, but if you spend much longer in that water, you’ll become chilled again, and get all pruney,” he said playfully. “Besides, I think Liselotte has had a lovely meal prepared for us, and you must be hungry. I certainly am.”

Philippe, a bit unwillingly, let himself be helped from the tub. He shivered at the air upon his wet, naked flesh and regretted the end of that nice long soak, until he was able to wrap up in a thick towel that had been warmed near the fire. Once he was dry, the Chevalier provided a soft linen nightgown and a long-sleeved, blue dressing gown for him to wear during supper. 

Philippe’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head when the Chevalier escorted him into the sitting room. Liselotte had laid out what looked like dozens of dishes that had been prepared and delivered to the suite from the palace kitchens. It was a little overwhelming; was he expected to consume all of this? His stomach’s earlier rebellion was still fresh in his mind.

“Have a seat, Philippe,” she smiled, gesturing to the chaise, where he could put his feet up and recline, alleviating some of the pressure on his posterior and hips. 

“This is a lot of food,” he stated, uncertain.

“I know it looks like it, but that is only because I ordered enough for all three of us. I was lucky to get it so quickly; the kitchens are preparing to serve the banquet at the fete, but it is early enough that they are not overwhelmed with that yet. You need only take what you truly want. If you feel you can only manage soup tonight, there are a few choices; as well as some simple fruits and vegetables, and bread which would be easy on your stomach. There’s no pressure,” she insisted, motherly in her concern. “Tell me what you’d like to start with, and I shall fix you a plate.”

“The broth, I suppose,” Philippe mused. “I mean, in order to make sure I can even keep it down.”

As Liselotte prepared her husband a dish of beef broth, with a little bit of unbuttered bread to go with it, the Chevalier went ahead and served his own dinner. He had forgotten that he himself had not had much to eat that day, aside from some grapes he had passive-aggressively wolfed down before Marchal would let him go on the rescue mission, and he was quite famished. As he and Liselotte partook of the heartier options from the spread, Philippe quietly and carefully worked on his bowl of broth. He was only too mindful of how sensitive his stomach would be after nearly three days with only a handful of stale bread to subsist on. But strangely, he did not think he was even actually hungry. Perhaps it was just fatigue setting in after the relaxation of the bath.

A sudden knock upon the door nearly sent the bowl flying from his hands. Everyone was startled, not expecting any sort of company, aside from the King, who would never deign to knock before entering these rooms. A manservant, who was standing to the side ready to clear any used dishes out of the way, hurried to answer the door. A second later, he announced, “Monsieur Fabien Marchal, Your Highnesses.” 

Philippe composed himself in order to receive Fabien, who strode into the sitting room with a polite bow. “Fabien, I am so glad to see you,” he said with a genuine smile. “I thought I might have simply dreamed of your presence earlier.”

“Monsieur, I am very relieved to see you alert; you gave us all a fright. I hope you are well?” Fabien indeed looked at Philippe with relief, for the prince’s color had improved from the ashen look he had possessed at the time of his rescue, and he was sitting up and speaking easily. He had not said as much to the Chevalier when they had parted earlier - the blonde had had enough on his mind - but he had been terribly concerned that Philippe might not make it back to Versailles. Shock could kill, and Philippe had been in very bad shape when they put him in the carriage that would take him home. 

“The doctor has said I shall live, so I think that’s a positive.”

“Would you care to join us, Monsieur?” Liselotte offered. “We have plenty of food, and I would like to express my deepest thanks for your service to my husband.”

“You are very kind, Madame. But I’m afraid I must decline tonight. I was on my way to visit the King, to give him my account of the day’s events, before making my way to the local prison. But I wanted to stop by and make certain that Monsieur had made it home safely and was being cared for. 

“You are going to see Etienne?” Philippe asked anxiously. “He needs to be informed about Mathieu’s death. The boy was his brother. Well, ‘step-brothers,’ he kept saying, but nevertheless, he was kin. Mathieu was quite devoted to him. I don’t know what you were planning on doing with the bodies. Renard, you can dump in the Seine for all I care. But I want Mathieu to have a proper burial - I owe him that. I will cover the expense.”

“If that is your wish, I shall see that it is done, Your Highness. And I shall tell Monsieur Barrineau of his brother’s passing.”

“Thank you,” Philippe sighed. He placed his bowl to the side, half-finished and, with the slightest groan, pulled himself off of the chaise. The Chevalier was immediately at his elbow, but Philippe indicated he was not in need of support. He went to Fabien and extended his hand to the inspector. “I also owe you a great debt, Fabien,” he said seriously. “It is one I shall never be able to repay, even if I live a thousand years. But, if you will let me, I could begin to try.” Philippe cast his eyes down, and his voice became thick. “There is much I have to make up for.”

Fabien’s eyes widened slightly. He took Monsieur’s hand in a firm grip. “Your Highness, please. There is nothing that you need to ‘make up for,’ at least not where I am concerned. I understand your heart, so please understand mine: it was my privilege to be able to help you in your time of need. Though I confess, it was the Chevalier who was the real hero. Never have I seen such determination. He would have willingly fought the Devil himself to save you… and I suspect he would have triumphed.”

The Chevalier felt his jaw drop in surprise at the unexpected compliment from the taciturn gentleman, and then when Philippe turned to meet his eye, he saw the prince’s face. “I know he would,” Philippe said, with a soft smile and eyes that were so filled with love the Chevalier almost came apart. “He is, indeed, my hero. And I shall be forever grateful for him, and pray he knows how important he is to me.” The gaze that passed between the two men was so fraught with emotion, that Liselotte couldn’t help but smile covertly. Fabien, too, noticed; and he thought back to the conversation he had shared with the Chevalier. He had to agree that this was no copy of affection. It was real, and true… and so intense it was almost tangible. _How lucky Lorraine is,_ he mused, with a brief flash of grief. _He still has his sun; Philippe is alive and warm and shining beside him. Would that I could have fought as hard for my love… would that I had the chance to be Claudine’s hero, instead of finding her too late…_

The old pain was back - it always snuck up on him, even after all this time - and Fabien politely excused himself. It would not do for him to ruin the moment with his memories of Claudine, and his failure to save the only true love of his life. He would allow this happy household to celebrate Monsieur’s return, and he would continue his work. Even though he had achieved his goal of rescuing Philippe for the King, he wanted to see it through to the end, and it would not be over until Etienne Barrineau paid for his crimes. He would consider his own future after that moment.


	22. Chapter 22

Philippe had only managed to eat slightly less than two-thirds of his soup before he set it aside, his stomach feeling full. He was exhausted, and already the pleasing warmth that he had absorbed from his bath into his muscles was wearing off. He was growing sore again. Both Liselotte and the Chevalier had been watching him like a hawk during supper, to see if he would start feeling ill. While the nausea had thankfully not returned, both did observe every tiny spoonful of broth he consumed, and the fatigue that was visibly overpowering him. Finally, Liselotte said, “Alright, Lorraine. I think it’s time you put our dear husband to bed. I’ll set things in order out here, and then I think I shall recline as well. We all need to sleep - and I think maybe tonight, we can finally have some peace.” She had already discussed the night’s vigil with the Chevalier, quickly and quietly while Philippe and Louis had been talking together, post-doctor’s visit. The brothers had not even noticed their whispered clandestine conference as they prepared Philippe’s bath. It was agreed: tonight was the Chevalier’s time. Liselotte was not blind to her husband’s injuries, nor to his trauma, and she would be nearby and available if her presence was needed in this first night home, but she also realized that the Chevalier would be critical to his healing, both physically and mentally. Philippe was far too worn out and emotionally frayed to have multiple people hovering over him and demanding his focus when he ought to be resting. She would have her time with him, but now was for the two lovers to come together once more, and with Philippe getting so much attention after his ordeal, some privacy would be a courtesy. 

Both men kissed Liselotte goodnight as they retreated back into their bedroom, the Chevalier at Philippe’s elbow. Not holding onto him, for he knew how Philippe would react to being treated like an invalid, but he was ready to react at the first sign of faltering. 

No sooner had they entered the boudoir, but the Chevalier snapped his fingers in realization, a look of urgency coming over his face. “Oh! I almost forgot. Wait right here - won’t be but a moment!” he dashed back out into the sitting room, blonde curls bouncing after him, before the prince could question him. Puzzled, Philippe took off his dressing gown and dropped it over a chair and stood close to the fire, which had been kept fed by the servants during dinner and was crackling well. He hoped to recapture some of its heat into his perpetually cold body. Before he had time to fret about where the Chevalier had gone, he was back, moving vigorously with a triumphant look. 

“What were you up to?” Philippe asked as the Chevalier carefully shut the doors behind him. 

The Chevalier smiled slyly. “I remembered that I needed to return this to you.” He held out his hand and revealed the prince’s ring, which he had asked Liselotte to retrieve for him from the safety of her own rooms. In midst of all the chaos of Philippe’s rescue and return, to say nothing of the condition he was in when he was brought home, the very thought of the ring had escaped both of the blondes up until that moment.

Philippe inhaled sharply, and his eyes widened. “My ring… you found it!” he breathed, taking it and staring at it as if receiving it for the first time. “When I was trying to free myself, I felt that it was gone from my finger. I didn’t know if it had been lost or if they’d taken it from me. But I did not think I would ever get it back.”

“I shall return it to its proper place,” the Chevalier said. Taking the ring from Philippe’s trembling grasp, he took his cold hand into his warm one and gently slid the jewel back onto the prince’s finger where it belonged. “Mon âme…” he murmured, as much a vow now as it had been when they first made it.

“Mon amant,” Philippe whispered, finishing the recitation of the inscription on the band’s inner side. 

The Chevalier brought Philippe’s hand up to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the knuckles. He caught a glimpse of those awful wounds upon his wrists, peeking just past the sleeve of his nightshirt, and he saw Philippe wince slightly, knowing that he was looking. _Oh, my poor Mignonette - he is still self conscious about his injuries._ “Philippe, you remember what I said earlier,” he said, lifting his hand to the black-and-blue-blemished cheek and brushing it ever so softly. “I meant it. You are so utterly, astonishingly beautiful. Not just your sweet face, my dear, but _you._ And you never fail to steal my breath away.” Philippe gave a small, shy smile, which made him even more fetching, and he lowered his long-lashed eyes in bashfulness. 

The Chevalier grinned, taking this as an invitation, and leaned in for a real kiss. He had been bestowing gentle kisses upon Philippe’s brow and cheeks since the rescue, in an effort to comfort and quiet the traumatized man. But now he was ready to taste Philippe’s mouth once more. 

Philippe, however, was somewhat tight-lipped, acting more like an awkward preteen experiencing a childish peck that they weren't emotionally ready for, instead of the seasoned and vigorous lover the blonde knew him to be. The Chevalier thought perhaps, since he was so hyper-aware of his current appearance coming out of captivity, he was hesitant to kiss due to the dryness of his lips; two days of dehydration and being gagged had admittedly chapped them to the point of cracking. But that was not enough of a deterrent to romance in his opinion. Hoping to help him relax a bit, the Chevalier drew in more, letting his arm drift to the small of Philippe’s back to bring him closer, expecting to embrace him. With a sudden gasp, Philippe broke the tense kiss and stepped away, breathing hard.

“Are you all right?” the Chevalier asked, worried. “I was trying to be mindful of your wounds, but-”

“No… no, I…” Philippe seemed to be struggling for words, and the Chevalier’s concern grew.

“Sweetheart, what is it?” He did, admittedly, feel somewhat spurned by Philippe recoiling from him, but he shook it off when he saw the momentary flash of fear in those green eyes, and how disquieted his lover was. He began to understand that such a sudden touch from behind, upon an area of his body that had been so tightly restricted and manhandled up until a few hours ago might not have been his best idea, well-meant though it was. 

He reached out once again, but Philippe whimpered, “I… I can’t. I’m sorry… Lorraine, I’m sorry, I…”

Still not completely certain what the matter was, the Chevalier tried to reassure him. “Shh, love, it’s fine. You don’t need to apologize. I didn't mean to hurt you; please forgive me.”

“You didn’t… I mean… I just… I don’t think I can…” Philippe fumbled for words, running his hands through his hair in frustration as his face grew heated. His distress was mounting, and to the Chevalier’s dismay, he looked like he might be on the cusp of another panic episode. _But from a kiss? Or was it from touching his back? If I did not hurt him, then what has caused this reaction?_ He wanted to know what the exact problem was, lest he unwittingly repeat the same action that had sent Philippe into this emotional spiral.

“Philippe, listen carefully to me. You must tell me what you want.”

“What I w-want?”

“Yes. Whatever is going on in your mind, I want to know about it. If you want space, I will give it to you. If you want time to process your experience before you talk about it, I will give it to you. If you need me to sleep elsewhere for the time being, I will do so. I just ask that you not shut me out. I don’t want you to do that thing that you tend to do, you know - pull into yourself and withdraw from me. Not again.”

Philippe winced, squeezing his eyes shut against what he thought was an accusation. The Chevalier could see where his thoughts were turning and quickly sought to amend his statement. “And I do not bring that up to cause you pain, Philippe! I say it because I want you to know that you _can_ trust me. I think - and if I’m wrong, please correct me - I think, you are afraid to tell me that you do not wish to make love tonight. If that is the case, I promise you, darling, you do not need to worry yourself about that. It will not offend me. Is that it? Tell me the truth.”

“...Yes…”

“And you don’t want to make love… because of what happened with Renard?” It was more of a statement than a question. It was a logical assumption - after all, the bastard in question had attempted to ravage Philippe mere hours ago, and while he didn’t have a detailed timeline of the past few days yet, he guessed that Renard had been responsible for the majority of injuries that had been inflicted on Philippe’s body. He just had not realized how skittish his brave Mignonette was after his ordeal, and had taken it for granted that once he was out of danger, and especially after the effusive praise to Fabien about how heroic the Chevalier was, he would be eager to fall into bed. He was kicking himself now for being so obtuse.

Philippe’s eyes glistened, and he averted his eyes guiltily. “Well… yes...” he said hoarsely. “But it’s hard… hard to explain.”

It was obvious he was not being completely forthcoming, and the Chevalier was not going to let him dodge the question. “Darling, please be honest with me. No more secrets between us, remember? I need to know what it is you fear. Are you afraid of _me_ , touching you?

“No! No.”

“But you do not feel physically well enough for sex right now.”

“I… I don’t think I can manage it.”

“Alright. That’s completely understandable. Your poor body has been through a lot these past few hours, to say nothing of the last three days. But you are reluctant to tell me this. Are you…” and the Chevalier had to pause for a moment as he remembered Philippe’s fearful entreaties when he was asked to step out for the doctor’s examination. His bitterness from that moment haunted him now, and he worried he had caused his lover to think he could not count on him. “Are you afraid I’ll walk out on you if I cannot have sex with you?”

“...I’m so s-sorry…” 

“Because of earlier, with the doctor?” he prodded.

Philippe shook his head again. “Well… yes, but… also…" 

And suddenly, the Chevalier understood. Philippe’s fear of speaking about this trauma… about being afraid to admit he could not be intimate at this moment and his anxiety about his lover being repulsed by the sight of his injuries… the way he begged the Chevalier not to walk out on him, not to _leave him_ \- it all came to him in a blinding flash of realization. Even his words to Fabien now took on a double meaning: ' _I pray he knows how important he is to me' - he was trying to let me know he loves me because he was not sure he would be able to express it physically. And he feared I would take it as rejection._

“Because of what happened between us when you came back from the war.”

Philippe was increasingly unable to speak coherently, as if the cloth had been put back into his mouth again, stealing his words. He felt his throat tightening, and he couldn’t swallow the lump that had produced itself as his thoughts began ricocheting through his mind. _You idiot. Look what you’ve done! You’re going to make him never want to touch you again. You have no business acting like such a little victim. You’re going to spoil everything if you keep behaving like a craven. Lorraine was a hero today because you were too weak to fight back, or to even stop yourself from being kidnapped to begin with. Why would he ever want to be with such a spineless disgrace?_ “Fuck. I’m ruining everything…again. Fuck!” he said, almost to himself, feeling choked, his composure visibly starting to crack..

“Hey!” the Chevalier interrupted sharply. “Nothing is ruined. We've already been through all of that - you did wrong, but I did wrong, too. I walked away when I should have recognized how much pain you were in. I did not fight for you - for us - back then. When we came back to each other, I swore that it would not happen again, and I swear it to you now. I will not leave. I’m here, Philippe. I am here, and I shall not leave you.”

“Forgive me...for being such a coward,” the prince said softly. He still could not look at his lover; the shame stubbornly refused to abate. 

“Don’t you dare say that. You are anything but!”

“But I’m acting so foolish. Nothing even happened to me! I was not raped. I shouldn’t be acting so… so…weak.” 

The Chevalier was aghast. “Maybe you were not raped, but you were _attacked_. Let’s not get hung up on technicalities, darling - you suffered greatly at the hands of those bastards who abducted you, and they had _no right_ to treat you so! Raped or not, they _hurt_ you, and that is unforgivable. You have every reason to feel the way you feel, after being put through such hell. No one, and I repeat _no one_ , would ever think you were weak for being affected by it. Least of all, me,” he concluded, slightly out of breath from his impassioned speech.

“But I am weak. I… I think I’m about to break…”

“Then break, my darling. I’ll be right here. You’ve been so strong, you’ve had to endure so much. It’s alright if you’ve reached your limit. It’s alright to break now. You are _safe._ ”

Philippe was visibly shaking, still trying his best to hold himself together, but rapidly losing the battle. It was obvious he was fighting against admitting he was not capable of intimacy at the moment, though it was still a bit unclear as to how the Chevalier would be able to solve this problem. “Let’s start over,” he soothed, and stepped closer to Philippe. “Mignonette, if you are not ready for sex tomorrow, or next month, or next year, then that is fine. You are worth waiting for, and we have all the time in the world. I know what stress you’ve been under physically, and I would sooner die than cause you any pain. At this moment, I would very much like to just hold you, but I need to make sure you won’t mind that. If you don’t want me to right now, I won’t, and that will be just fine. Just tell me so. I don’t want to push you if you're not ready. I can wait. I will not touch you until _you_ decide you want it.”

“Please… I want you to. Please don’t leave me.”

The Chevalier needed no further encouragement, and he tenderly gathered the prince into his arms, noting with worry at how he could feel the brunet’s heart racing. Philippe wrapped his aching arms around the Chevalier, first hesitantly, then growing into an almost desperate embrace, and he buried his face into his neck. “You’re safe, Philippe,” he murmured, cherishing the feel of the other man in his arms. He had thought he might lose this forever. _They really tried to take my love away from me. I really almost lost him…_ He opened his mouth to reassure Philippe, shocked to hear the wobble in his own voice. “No one shall harm you ever again. You are safe now, my darling. Let it all out - I’m not going anywhere.” It was only a moment before he felt hot tears drip upon his skin, and felt Philippe’s slender body intensify its trembling, wracked with shuddering sobs. It brought tears to the Chevalier’s eyes as well, and he so wanted to take the pain away, to undo everything those immoral bastards had done to his beloved’s body and spirit over the past few days. Philippe had indeed reached the limit of his strength and the shell of bravery and defiance he had shielded himself with in front of his captors had sustained a devastating crack when Renard had assaulted him, only to widen when his own demons began to contribute to it. The Chevalier upheld him as it all came away, hoping to keep the storm from dragging his love into waters that were too deep for him to tread. 

Several minutes passed with the two men locked in their tight embrace. The Chevalier allowed Philippe to be the first one to break the hug, as he pulled back slightly and rested his forehead against his lover's, sniffling and hiccuping as he tried to master himself again.

“Let’s get you into bed, love,” the Chevalier said, as he guided the trembling prince to the bed, pulling back the bedclothes so that Philippe could climb in. He saw Philippe fidgeting with the sleeves of his nightgown. The cuffs hit right at the raw marks the ropes had made. “Is that gown bothering your wrists?”

“A bit, yes.”

“Do you think we should bandage them, so they won’t be irritated?”

“I don’t think I can endure having anything wrapped around my wrists right now. It’s… a bit too soon.”

“Of course, sweetheart. Well then, let’s take the gown off,” the Chevalier suggested. Philippe hesitated and arched a brow. “Honestly, Mignonette,” the Chevalier scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I _can_ control myself, you know. I promised you I would respect your wishes, and I shall. The only thing I expect you to do in that bed is sleep, and I intend to see that you do exactly that.” 

With a sheepish look of apology, Philippe carefully pulled off his linen nightgown, once more standing naked. In the candlelight, his fair skin gleamed like a pearl around the mottled bruises. Even damaged, he was exquisite, and as always, he took the Chevalier's breath away. He crawled gingerly between the covers, grimacing slightly as his limbs stretched in ways they had not been able to for so long. The Chevalier then pulled up the blankets, tucking him in, making sure he would be warm, especially now that he was wearing nothing but his skin. 

“Lorraine…?” Philippe murmured, looking up as the Chevalier began to put out some of the candles. Even though twilight was still visible out the window (for it was early yet; the sun had only set half an hour ago), he didn’t want to extinguish all the light in the room, just in case Philippe woke in the night disoriented, or in case he needed something. He met his lover’s reddened eyes when he spoke his name.

“You said to tell you what I want?” Philippe exhaled shakily. “I… I… want…”

“Yes, darling?”

“Please stay. I want you here, with me. Would you be willing to just keep holding me tonight? Not sex… I really can’t manage it right now,” he said in a low, guilty voice that nearly made the Chevalier crumble in sympathy. “Everything hurts. I just want to feel your arms around me… it would… _you_ would make me feel safe. You always make me feel safe.”

“Oh, my sweet Mignonette,” he smiled sadly, brushing the still-damp raven hair back from the tear-stained face he loved so much. “Of course I will hold you. Forever, if you wish it.” He paused a moment, wanting to ensure that Philippe was truly satisfied with the arrangement. “Would you like me to remain clothed? Or to sleep on top of the covers while you sleep beneath? What would you prefer, love? Tell me what would make you comfortable.”

“No, I want you here with me… next to me, so I can feel your warmth and hear your heart. If you would feel more comfortable staying clothed, since we aren’t going to make love, I understand. But I… I like you naked.”

That was all the prompting he needed. The Chevalier removed his clothes as Philippe watched. He took his time, aware of the watchful eyes upon him, and soon he too was naked. Leaving the various articles draped over the furniture, he lifted the covers and slid into bed beside Philippe, taking care to be on the prince’s left side, so that when he curled into him, pressure would not be on the region of his body that was the most heavily bruised. Once he got himself settled comfortably against his portion of pillows, Philippe scooted in closer, leaning into the blonde’s side and resting his head against his chest. The thrum of his heartbeat gave him something to focus on and orient himself to - a pulse of life, a heart that beat with love, and the protection of a strong arm around him. They lay in each others arms, a golden ray of sun and a pale moonbeam, together upon the same pillow. 

Right now, as much as he desired Philippe, to possess him fully and drive the ghosts of unworthy, predatory hands from his thoughts, he had no intention of dishonoring the request for a chaste night’s sleep. It was obvious that even if Philippe had been willing, he was truly in no condition to exert himself at this time. The Chevalier merely hoped that he could help lull away some of the snarling tension that he had felt in the slim body of the prince he loved, which was so bruised and sore. _How could anyone mistreat him? How could anyone dare attempt to steal what is mine?_

The Chevalier let his fingertips softly drift onto the bare skin of Philippe’s back and shoulders in a light, soothing scratch. He was always very tactile with Philippe, touching him in a way he knew very few people had ever done, had ever been allowed to do. As a royal prince, even as a ‘spare’ to the heir, he’d been brought up under certain strictures, one of which was the limits of proper physical expressions of affection, both given and received. Poor, gentle Philippe had not had many hugs growing up after his mother became Regent for the young King Louis, and even fewer after she abandoned dressing him and treating him as a little girl. The truth was he deeply craved that demonstration of tenderness. When the Chevalier touched Philippe - a caress of his cheek, the stroking of his shoulder - Philippe would melt into it, relishing being petted and cared for, being someone’s sole focus for a moment, just as he was doing now. It made the Chevalier feel like he had a sort of magic, to give something very intimate to this noble prince that no one else could - not merely passionate and satisfying sex, but touch rooted in tenderness, attention, and real love. 

As the light touch raised goosebumps upon his fair flesh, and then dropped him further into a state of relaxation, the prince closed his eyes. “I love you…” Philippe whispered, nuzzling closer to him, breathing in his scent, which smelled like wine, and light, and life. “I love you so much.”

“And I love you, Mignonette,” the Chevalier murmured in return, pressing a kiss upon the raven head as he continued to gently caress Philippe’s bare skin, to heal him with his touch. “Now, sleep. You are safe, and I will be right here when you wake. Rest, my love.” 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting a little sexy in this chapter, but not too terribly graphic.

At some point during the night, the Chevalier blinked awake, something unknown rousing him from his sleep. The few scattered tapers he had left lit were still burning low, and in the dim light, he was startled to see the King standing by the side of the bed, gazing at his younger brother, who was soundly sleeping with his head upon his lover’s chest.

The Chevalier, once he was certain that he was not dreaming, started to speak in acknowledgement of his sovereign, belatedly realizing both he and his bedmate were in their birthday suits, but the King, noticing he was awake, silenced him with a gesture. “I would not disturb him for all the world,” he whispered, indicating the sleeping brunet. “How is he?”

The Chevalier looked down at Philippe. He had not moved one inch since falling asleep in his lover’s protective arms. His breathing was deep and even, his lips slightly parted, and his dark, full eyelashes seeming longer than ever in sleep. “He… will need some time, Your Majesty,” he answered, as quietly as possible so as not to disturb his beautiful, wounded prince. “I think he will be alright, but it might be a long road ahead.” He, of course, would not divulge the details of their intimacy, or lack thereof, to the Sun King, least of all because His Majesty would never want to hear them. He hoped his answer and his tone would sufficiently communicate his cautious optimism, but also his concern.

Louis tentatively reached out a hand and pulled a corner of the sheet away from Philippe’s shoulder. He had seen the dark shadows that marred it, but he had to make sure it was not some trick of the light upon his eyes. Once he realized the true size of the bruising, his face became a hard mask. “This is the first I’ve seen of it; how bad is the rest?”

The Chevalier bit his lip, grimacing at the reminder of the giant contusions that lay beneath the bedclothes. “It’s difficult to look at, Your Majesty. And I fear it is more painful than he wishes to admit to me.”

Louis carefully tucked the sheet back up around Philippe, giving him a bit more cover. He shuddered at the memory of Philippe’s clammy hand that he had gripped while he was unconscious, uncertain if he would wake up again. “I was thinking… perhaps in a day or two, when everything has calmed down, and we are assured of the stability of his health… you would consider escorting Monsieur to Saint-Cloud for a period of time? For his leisure, and so that he might convalesce in peace.” The King bit his lip, his eyes never leaving his sleeping brother, and his face softened. “That is, if you think he would enjoy that?”

The Chevalier nodded. “I think he would find it most agreeable.” He hoped his tone disguised his surprise. Usually the King was quite adamant about Philippe remaining close to him at Versailles, in order to maintain control over him. The fact that he would _suggest_ an extended retreat to Saint-Cloud… His Majesty must be concerned indeed. And it was true that rumors were flying through the court, as they always did - Philippe’s disappearance had been noted, and his return was surely being whispered about even now. Speculation was rampant about both events, and regardless of whatever official story was presented, it would be difficult for him to disguise the damage done to his body. Powder might be able to cover a bit of the bruising upon his face, but there were no lace cuffs long enough to fully hide the wounds on his wrists, nor the ginger way he had to walk from the ache of his muscles and joints. Those things were not going to fade overnight.

Louis had another private reason for wanting to see Philippe safely ensconced at his own estate, one that he was not willing to disclose in detail. He was going to root out any and all conspirators within the palace walls. If anyone even breathed a hint of sympathy for the Protestant cause, they would be branded as traitors and arrested. Etienne Barrineau _would_ give him names before he died, and the Duc d’Orleans would be kept out of harm’s way until Versailles was cleansed of all treason. And once this was finished, he would set his sights upon Paris, and beyond. Louis looked again at his damaged little brother, needing to remind himself that Philippe was alive and safe, and he steeled his resolve to prevent any further harm from coming to him. _When he sleeps, he could be a child again. He has protected me so many times. But I’m the eldest, and I am his King; I must do a better job of protecting him. In truth, he’s always been the stronger one._

Just then, Philippe stirred, furrowing his brow slightly, but he did not open his eyes. With a soft moan, flexing his fingers against the Chevalier’s chest, he murmured, “L’raine?”

The Chevalier began once more softly stroking the prince’s back, still exposed from the blonde running his fingers through the long dark hair and pushing it aside, so that he might have more skin-to-skin contact. “Shh, all is well, Mignonette. I’m here. Go back to sleep, my sweet.” Philippe sighed once more, shifting slightly to nuzzle closer to the Chevalier’s warmth, but seemed to easily drift away again without fully waking.

“I shall leave him in your hands, Lorraine,” Louis whispered, preparing to take his leave. He felt oddly like he was in the way - clearly, the Chevalier did not want to risk accidentally waking his brother again and robbing him of the precious rest he needed to heal, and here he was trying to have a full conversation about plans for Philippe’s recovery. This would be better done in the light of day, in the privacy of his presence chamber. “We shall speak further of Saint-Cloud tomorrow. Take care of him. Inform me if he needs anything, no matter how small.” He started to exit, but paused and turned back. “Oh, Lorraine? The fete was a great success. My compliments, and my congratulations.” 

The Chevalier could only smile and incline his head slightly, a normal bow out of the question while lying supine with Philippe resting upon him. The King left as quietly as he had come, and the blonde exhaled. He held his prince more closely, and as he traced delicate circles upon his white skin, the Chevalier let himself doze off once more.

* * *

Several more hours passed, until the Chevalier was awakened by a loud thud and a sharp moan. A few of the candles had sputtered out by now, but there was still just enough light to see the room. He looked around blearily for Philippe, but he was not in bed. His brow creased in worry as he sat up, searching for the figure of the Duc d’Orleans. “Philippe?” 

Another ragged moan answered him. The Chevalier scooted to the edge of the mattress, and saw Philippe on the floor by the bed, tension visible in his entire body. Like a shot, the Chevalier, now wide awake, bolted up and threw himself toward Philippe’s fallen form. “Shit! Philippe? My love, did you hurt yourself?” he asked frantically.

Philippe groaned, pressing his hands against the floor as his body screamed at him for daring to move. How could he possibly feel so much worse after being freed and sleeping unrestrained? “No… I’m fine…” he choked out, his voice oddly thick from sleep and also from what the Chevalier assumed was fear. “I forgot…”

“It’s alright; you had a bad dream,” the Chevalier soothed, ready to comfort whatever terrors would reveal themselves.

“No, I had a leg cramp! Still do. Fuck,” came the grunted reply.

Philippe was, in fact, in the middle of a most uncomfortable charley horse. The Chevalier nearly laughed in relief when he realized his mistake, which had been a fair assumption on his part. Philippe was no stranger to nightmares following times of trauma, even ones that, on occasion, caused him to fall out of bed from flailing. But he recovered himself and immediately sought to be of assistance. “Oh! My goodness. My poor Mignonette. Let me see what I can do. Which leg is it?”

“Right calf,” Philippe hissed. “Ouch! Shit!”

“Here, let’s get you back into bed, and I’ll see if I can’t help you feel better.”

“No… I must see Louis, before it’s too late,” Philippe argued, shaking his head in refusal.

“Why?” The Chevalier asked, his concern swiftly returning. Despite his discomfort, Philippe was genuinely distressed about something. It appeared he had not merely been trying to stretch out his cramp by standing, but had actually attempted to go somewhere. “What on earth is the matter?”

“I forgot…” Philippe repeated. “There’s a traitor in the palace! One of the attendants. He gave me wine that was drugged; that’s how they took me. I know he’s here; Etienne said he was ‘their man on the inside.’ I can’t believe I forgot to tell Louis there was a spy here… he could be plotting right now… he could hurt someone!” As he struggled to make his panic understood to the confused blonde, Philippe tried to pull himself up before his lover could stop him, groaning at the exertion. Sleep had atrophied his muscles, and his whole body, from his head to his feet, felt like lead. ‘Sore’ was an understatement for his current state. The twinge in his leg tightened further and he was brought low once again. “Ow, ow, ow…” he hissed through gritted teeth as his body rebelled against his attempts to stand.

The Chevalier carefully eased Philippe back into a sitting position on the floor, propping him up against the bed frame. “No, no. Now listen to me, Mignonette,” he soothed, studying his lover and noting the light perspiration upon the brunet’s too-fair face. The circles beneath his eyes seemed even more pronounced, to say nothing of the bruises. _How is that possible? He did sleep - I know he did. Did it do nothing at all for him?_ “You don’t need to do anything. We already know all about the man you’re speaking of.”

“You do?”

“Youngish, around his late twenties, light brown hair? Face rather like a marshmallow?”

“That sounds like him!” Philippe nodded, his eyes widening. Though the Chevalier’s description was characteristically snarky, he understood exactly what he meant.

“I thought as much. You don’t have to worry about him anymore, my love. His name is Sebastien Donais, and he was a mere peasant from the kitchens. He obtained royal livery to gain access to your rooms in order to leave all Barrineau’s messages, like the one that got you into the gardens to begin with. We caught the fool red-handed, and your ring was found in his pocket.” The Chevalier smiled grimly, pushing a lock of Philippe’s hair away from his sweaty, pain-tightened forehead. He had no plans to tell Philippe that Donais had killed himself when confronted, but neither did he want to mislead him. If, and only if, Philippe asked if the man was in jail, he would simply say he was dead, having tried to flee. “He all but admitted his guilt when we confronted him. Barrineau did a piss-poor job selecting his people. He is no longer a threat; he cannot hurt you anymore. Do you understand me?”

“You really got him?”

“Yes, my love. You are safe.”

“Forgive me… I woke up feeling like you were in danger, and all I could think about was that man - Donais, you said his name was? I don’t know why his face was in my mind, but when I did I realized I had not mentioned him to you, or Louis or Fabien…” Philippe trailed off at the horrible implication. The Chevalier stroked his cheek lovingly.

“Hush now; let’s get you back into bed. You’ll catch your death sitting there naked, and I want to help with your cramp.”

The Chevalier helped Philippe stand, bearing most of his weight as the smaller man’s legs nearly buckled beneath him, throbbing angrily at being used after such a long dormancy. He got his lover back onto the mattress and made sure he was comfortable upon the pillows, then climbed into bed himself, assuming a position in between Philippe’s legs. He began to slowly massage the offending muscle that was causing his Mignonette such agony. Mindful of the bruising upon that leg, he carefully kneaded the slim white calf, wincing in sympathy when he felt just how tight it was within its spasm. “Oh dear, I can feel it. That must hurt, darling - I’m sorry.” The prince groaned as the Chevalier’s fingers tried to unkink his aching leg, pressing fingers deep into the flesh to tame the discomfort, as well as attempting to stretch it out straight. 

“I was - oh, ow! - so focused on how sore my arms and back were,” Philippe grunted, “I didn’t even think about my legs, though they were bound just as long as the rest of me.”

“Is this helping at all?”

“Yes, it’s beginning to. Thank you so much,” the prince said gratefully, as he felt the tightness slowly start to unravel. He blinked as he tried to unclench the rest of his body. “I am sorry I woke you that way; I was trying to be quiet when I got up.”

The Chevalier clucked, dismissing the apology with a shake of the head. “Nonsense. I’m glad I did wake up; otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to help you, and you might have crawled all the way to the King without a stitch on. I don't think he could appreciate such a view the way I can. There we are... I can feel it loosening up now, but I’ll keep going for a little while longer, just to make sure it doesn’t come back,” the Chevalier said. 

A bit calmer now that his worries about the traitor were assuaged, Philippe watched his lover from his pillow, noting his naked body in the faint candlelight. Lorraine always looked radiant in the warm glow of a flame, no matter how bright, and now was no exception - the tiny hairs upon his chest and arms catching the light and making his finely-muscled body gleam golden, his sleep-mussed curls spilling in gentle waves down his back and shoulders. Philippe was excessively fond of the Chevalier’s arms; it was a shame that court fashions hid those beautiful limbs, a sculptor’s dream come true. Then again, he had the privilege of seeing them bare in bed, of feeling those arms wrapped around his more delicate frame, strong, passionate, and protective. He didn’t think he wanted to share that vision with others after all. Let the fashions hide what they may; it was enough that he knew the truth.

The Chevalier, for once unaware of the prince’s appreciative gaze, continued to massage Philippe’s slender leg, his face focused on his work. He was anxious to make sure that such unpleasantness would not disturb the brunet further from his needed rest. He had been at it for several minutes when he noticed that Philippe was biting his lip and looking uncomfortable, as if he was about to be in the throes of another spasm. But his calf muscle felt reasonably relaxed now, so where was the cramp occurring? The other leg? His back or shoulders? The Chevalier opened his mouth to inquire if he was all right, but right as he inhaled to pose the question, he finally observed what was occurring just north of Philippe’s legs. _Oh,_ he realized belatedly, concerned but also a little pleased. _So desire is not the issue…_ “Philippe?” he asked, keeping his voice even. “Are you… quite alright?”

Philippe saw that the Chevalier had noticed his arousal. “Um, maybe?” he answered, uncertainly. “Why?”

“Oh, I was just wondering… how is your other leg feeling? I do not wish you to develop a cramp in that one as well, and it might become jealous of all the attention I’m giving this one. Would you like me to… tend to it? I promise I’ll be gentle and I won't touch the bruises.”

“If you think it would be best…”

He gently transferred one hand to the non-offending calf, massaging both at the same time, allowing his touch to vary from deep kneading in the meat of the leg, to more gentle, light touches upon the top of the foot and ankle and the joint of the knee. As he worked his way up, he allowed his hands to demurely brush against Philippe’s groin, ever so softly, just to ‘say hello,’ as it were. Philippe’s toes curled with each graze of the Chevalier’s fingers, and more heat filled his loins. _Damn it, why did I take my nightgown off?_ he thought, though in truth, wearing a thin linen shift would not have prevented him from becoming aroused, nor would it have hidden anything from the keen-eyed blonde, who knew every inch of him all too well.

“Mignonette,” the Chevalier began, with an innocent tone. “I fear you might be experiencing a… dilemma of sorts.” _Oh, you absolute arse,_ Philippe thought, though without any venom behind it. _A dilemma, indeed. I may feel like I’ve been trampled by a cavalry battalion, but I’m still human. Why do you have to be so fucking beautiful?_ The Chevalier went on. “How would you like to take care of this? Do you want to handle it,” the blonde had to stop a smirk at the inadvertent pun, “or may I take care of you?”

“I… um…”

“I could use my mouth to please you, if you would like.”

Normally that might have been just the ticket, but a flash of memory came to him, a terrible fragment of a dream where his Chevalier had leaned down to pleasure him, but had found himself with a slit throat… “No,” Philippe blurted out, a little too quickly. _I can’t tell him that! It would horrify him; and while the story might deflate my little issue, it will also kill the mood and ruin our sleep for the rest of the evening._ “No. I want… I want to kiss you. I’m ready to try.”

“Oh, well, that can be arranged,” the Chevalier smiled, hoping that, now that he had rested a little, his lover might be more willing to yield to a true, deep kiss. “And meanwhile, would you like me to use my hand to relieve you? Or are you going to tend to yourself?” At Philippe’s hesitation, he added, “You are in charge, my love. Tell me what you wish me to do for you, and your wish shall be my command.”

“Alright…?” Philippe said hesitantly, mulling over the Chevalier’s offer, then again, with more confidence. “Alright. Use your hand to bring me off; I want your mouth on mine.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then you kiss me. Show me how far you want me to go right now.” The Chevalier ceased his massage and crawled forward, so that his face was by Philippe's upon the pillow. He wanted Philippe to take charge, but he wasn't going to let him overexert himself physically - his love was still hurting so.

Philippe reached up a hand and traced the Chevalier's mouth, outlining the lush lips with an almost reverent touch. Letting his fingers rest at the blonde's chin, he shyly let his lips meet the Chevalier’s, brushing against them as delicately as a butterfly’s wings. He did not know why he was so bashful now - their record of kisses numbered as many as the stars in the sky. This was not new, yet it felt like uncharted territory, and he couldn’t quite understand the reason. But when he felt the warmth of the Chevalier’s mouth upon his, accepting and patient, he began to grow bolder. He let his tongue wander into the other man’s mouth, cautious and searching, both his hands now tenderly cupping the blonde’s perfect face as his kisses became more generous. 

The Chevalier, for his part, was achingly gentle with him, letting him set the tone for the meeting of their mouths. In a strange way, he found it deliciously sensual, the winsome curiosity that Philippe was showing as he let his tongue explore. It was a surprising turn-on… almost, dare he say, as if Philippe was coming to him as a virgin. Neither of them had been untried when they consummated their affair years ago; both had come into their first kisses and first tumbles in bed with prior experience from other affairs. Is this what Philippe had been like before he had become a seasoned lover? Because his sweet innocence was currently inflaming him. 

He did not have any lubricant on hand and he wasn’t going to stop to retrieve any, not with things in such a delicate state, but beneath his kisses, he could sense that Philippe’s need was growing much too great. It would not take long once he started, unless he made it take longer. He let one hand cradle Philippe’s head while the other floated downward, slowly grazing the ribs and the taut belly until it reached between the brunet’s legs. He lightly teased Philippe’s hard member as he welcomed the growing passion his lover was showing with his mouth. He moved to the prince’s cheeks and jawline to allow Philippe a chance to breathe - the brunet was becoming quite hot and his respiration frenetic.

“You’re driving me mad,” Philippe whispered tightly, the feathery touches below combining with the tickle of the Chevalier’s mustache upon his skin.

“Good,” the Chevalier smiled as he pressed a gentle kiss against the white throat. “It will be that much more satisfying when I finally relieve you.”

“Hurry up and do it!”

“Now, now. Ask politely, Mignonette. I need to make sure you really want me to.”

“Oh, for G-god’s sake,” Philippe inhaled, his body arching into the ache in his loins. “Please!”

“Please what, darling?” the Chevalier asked innocently, pausing his actions. Yes, he was admittedly teasing Philippe, but he also was double checking that he was still on board with where this was taking them. He would not ask for more than this simple task to fulfill, not with the prince still so physically diminished, but he wanted it to be beautiful and enjoyable for Philippe, so that when the time came, he would be unafraid to want more. 

“I want you to make me cum," Philippe finally begged, hoarsely. "Please. I can't take much more of this bloody taunting.”

“Oh! Well, since you asked so nicely,” grinned the Chevalier, as he finally grasped Philippe's full length with his hand. "But before I do anything, you must promise to tell me if anything doesn't feel right. I would not hurt you for the world, my love, so if you don't like what's happening, you must tell me right away. Understand?" When no response came, the Chevalier moved his hand in such a way that Philippe moaned and writhed. "I said, do you understand? Respondez-vous, please."

"Yes, yes, I understand," Philippe breathed, his words coming out in a rush. The Chevalier once more began to kiss his lover, occupying Philippe's beautiful mouth with his while rhythmically stroking him. As he predicted, it was only a few minutes of attentive work before he felt Philippe tense up beneath his touch and warm liquid spill into his hand. Philippe quivered at the release, and the Chevalier pulled back just enough to meet his eyes and check in to make sure he was well. When all Philippe could muster was a raspy but satisfied "Shit," the blonde rewarded him with an impish grin.

"Was that to your liking, love?"

Philippe was only able to nod as he worked to get his breath under control. The Chevalier pressed another loving kiss upon his forehead, then got up to clean his hand. As he washed in the basin near the bed and dried his hand on a cloth, he heard Philippe murmur, "Should I take care of you now?" Turning back towards him, the Chevalier nearly said yes, but paused at seeing how spent his lover was. Philippe needed to rest now; even if he was up for it (which his appearance did not indicate - the spirit seemed willing, but the flesh was clearly weak), the Chevalier knew that right now, he could not expect more than the reciprocity of Philippe's hand to bring him off. What he desired was Philippe's mouth; what he craved was Philippe's whole body.

He shook his head and smiled gently. "Not just yet, Mignonette. Give yourself a moment to rest; I can wait." He had a feeling that Philippe would soon succumb again to weariness, now that his body had been relieved.

"Are you sure? Because I can..." Philippe asked, looking worried.

"I am completely sure. In the meantime, I am content to hold you until you're ready, if you will let me."

Philippe wordlessly scooted slightly over, indicating that he wanted the Chevalier to lie next to him. As soon as the blonde was resettled next to the brunet, Philippe embraced him. "I missed you... so very much," he murmured into the Chevalier's neck, inhaling his scent. "And I promise, I will give you pleasure. I will..."

"Darling, hush. I know you will, when you are ready. Don't think of it right now. It was my pleasure to tend to you, and I know you will do the same for me. Don't bother yourself with evening the score. I would rather you rest now and gather your strength. Shh," he said, stroking Philippe's raven hair away from his fair face. “By the way, not to kill the mood or anything, but your brother came by earlier while you were sleeping.”

“What?” Philippe looked up in surprise. "He did?"

“Yes, you were out like a light, and neither of us had the heart to wake you. Nothing is wrong. The visit wasn't for anything specific; he just wanted to make sure you were well. And if you can imagine it, he suggested a retreat to Saint-Cloud, so that you might be able to recover in peace, away from the pressures of court.” 

“My brother? He willingly offered to allow me to go to Saint-Cloud?" Philippe stared in disbelief. "Are you sure you weren't dreaming this?"

"As I live and breathe, I was wide awake and so was he."

"And you didn’t put the idea in his head?”

“Much as I would like to take credit, I can’t. It was his idea, from his own royal brain; he hoped it might suit you. Does it, my love?”

"It would suit me very much," Philippe smiled that heavenly smile that the Chevalier loved so dearly. He quickly looked up at his lover, the slightest glimmer of anxiety in his pale green eyes. “You would come too, right?” he asked, eager to affirm that he was not simply being shipped off, as he had during his smallpox bout. 

“Of course I would!" the Chevalier exclaimed, surreptitiously holding Philippe a little tighter, so that he would know such a journey would not occur without him. "I would love the opportunity to return to Saint-Cloud with you, and to take care of you there. I have not been back since… my goodness, I think since I returned from exile. That seems quite long ago, but I know I did not visit without you at any time.”

“Then let’s go. First thing in the morning.”

“Darling, we will need to pack.”

“No… our luggage can follow. Let’s go at first light.”

“I think first light will be here sooner than you realize,” the Chevalier chuckled. “Give it just a day, sweetheart. You’re still so sore-"

"No, I'm fine! I'm better now, really!"

"Ah, ah!" The Chevalier cut him off, but stopped himself just in time, for he had almost reached up to put his hand over Philippe's mouth to muffle his protests. That would have been a disastrous move, surely. "Don't interrupt me, you naughty thing. I know you're sore because when I woke up you were flat on the floor and I just spent half an hour working a cramp out of your leg. And while it was my pleasure to do so, I doubt that's the end of your aches and pains. I fear traveling even that small distance to your estate might be more than you need to endure so soon after your return." The Chevalier had to bite back a laugh, because as he spoke he saw Philippe's sumptuous lower lip go into a full-on pout, the likes of which would only be found on a spoiled child. And by God, it was beautiful. "You need at least a full day of rest before the exertion of a trip. And then we can go and stay as long as we wish.”

"I want to go tomorrow."

"We'll see how you feel. Right now, I want you to relax. No more arguing tonight, or I shall take away our trip entirely. Understood? Respond, please."

"Fine." Philippe snuggled against the Chevalier, still pouting a bit, but he had been effectively distracted from the notion of trying to reciprocate the Chevalier's handjob, and he soon found himself yawning. Frankly, the Chevalier was relieved. He wasn't entirely sure that his actions had been advisable under the circumstances, and he would have hated himself if he had wound up hurting Philippe or causing him emotional harm, but his lover had been responsive enough. There didn't seem to be any ill effects from this most miniscule act. But he still wanted more from the prince than just merely a hand bringing him to a climax. He didn't want Philippe to think he was dissatisfied with the actions that he was able to give right now; if they had started something but the mercurial brunet had been unable to finish it, be it from pain or fear or disgust, he would retreat into himself, and the ground they had covered tonight would be lost. As much as the Chevalier craved to pleasure himself with Philippe's body, especially in the ways that his lover was currently so averse to, it was more important to let Philippe become secure with sex once again, to reclaim his control of his own body and his desires. Saint-Cloud could be the perfect place to do so. 

As he felt Philippe's breathing even out, he stayed quite still, only caressing his lover's hair as he held him close. Just when he thought his partner was asleep, he heard a clear whisper, "Thank you for loving me, Philippe." 

The Chevalier nearly shattered. Instead, wrapping his arms tighter around Philippe's slim, bruised body, he whispered back, "I always shall, my love."


	24. Chapter 24

Despite the interruptions to his sleep in that long night, the Chevalier felt oddly energized when he naturally awoke in the morning. To his knowledge, Philippe had not had any other disturbances to his rest after their limited late-night intimacy, but his sleeping lover still looked utterly exhausted in the dull sunlight that flooded through the window. The bruising that was currently visible on his face seemed to have changed, perhaps shifting in size or color due to the passage of more time. _My sweet darling,_ he thought in consternation, and he chided himself. _He's not going to be perfectly restored in one night, you fool. It's enough of a miracle that he's here beside me in this bed._

But as with most mornings, the usual bodily urges came along to annoy him into motion. The Chevalier carefully untangled himself from the sheets and got up to visit the chamber pot, shivering at the cool air upon his bare skin once it was free of its warm cocoon of cover. He hoped he could move quietly enough so as not to bother Philippe. But he wasn’t careful enough.

“Mm…” Philippe groaned. “C’m back t’bed,” he whispered, not even opening his eyes.

“I will, darling. Let me just answer nature’s call.”

“Nature’s stupid…” Philippe muttered, burrowing further into his pillow.

“Yes, it is quite stupid,” the Chevalier smiled as he relieved himself into the pot. Once he was finished, he tiptoed back to the bed. Climbing back in and snuggling next to his lover, who was so deeply nestled into the pillows and sheets it was as if he had literally buried himself into the mattress, he asked with gentle concern, “And how are you feeling, Mignonette? Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as you are every morning?” He smirked as he carefully tucked back the few errant locks of raven hair that hung over Philippe’s face, allowing himself a lingering caress. Philippe was most assuredly _not_ a morning person, even on his best days, so he was completely prepared for a grumpy prince to respond to him this morning, especially knowing how run down he would be feeling.

“Feel like a dead warhorse,” came the muffled reply. “Vultures picking at me. Don’t wanna get up.”

“You don’t have to get up, Mignonette,” the Chevalier smiled tolerantly. “There’s no reason for you to be anywhere. You can spend the whole day in bed if you’d like. We can eat here, sleep some more, talk… maybe other things?”

“Such as?”

“How about building a nice little fortress out of pillows?” the blonde said innocently, knowing Philippe would expect a more randy answer, but not wanting to make him think there was any pressure about expectations in this bed of theirs.

“You’re loony…” Philippe chuckled, but also winced slightly as the chuckle morphed into a small cough. That did not escape the Chevalier’s notice. “I actually think I’d like to go back to sleep…”

“Then that’s just what you shall do, my dear.”

“But I realized when you went to answer nature’s call… she started calling to me, too.”

The Chevalier gasped dramatically. “Why, that noisy bitch!” he said with a playful tone, which brought a smile to the brunet’s face as he finally pried his eyes open. “Would you like me to help you, love?”

“No, I can do it,” Philippe sighed. He pushed himself up from his pillow, the exertion bringing a groan from his lips. He had to pause for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut in such a look of pain that the Chevalier feared he might have caused himself an unknown injury when he fell on the floor last night trying to alert Louis of the traitor in the palace. He prayed it was just the residual ache of Philippe's muscles from the stress they had had to endure. 

“Here, darling, I’m going to bring the chamber pot closer,” he said, getting back out of bed to try and make the simple task of a morning piss less excruciating for his lover. “If you can just make it to the edge of the bed, I’ll help with the rest.” He retrieved the chamber pot from its discreetly hidden alcove and carried it back to the bed. Philippe was still struggling to crawl to the edge, fighting both the sheets and his own rebellious body. The Chevalier set the pot down and helped disentangle the prince, blanching when he saw how the circumference of the bruises on his body seemed to have expanded in the night. 

Finally, Philippe got himself into a position where he could comfortably and cleanly relieve himself without leaving the bed entirely. A pink blush touched his pale cheeks as he did so. “This is hardly romantic, is it?” he commented wryly, embarrassed once more at his helplessness. “I suppose I should be grateful that I’m not tied up; that was infinitely worse.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I required assistance to relieve myself while I was captive. They weren’t willing to untie me, so they… you know,” he shrugged, finishing up his morning toilette.

“Not that brute!” the Chevalier gasped, horrified that not only was Philippe subjected to something so degrading, but that someone so foul as that disgusting rapist might be in such an intimate position of power over him.

“No,” Philippe shook his head quickly. “They didn’t let Renard touch me. It was Etienne and Mathieu that took care of that. I guess they were… respectful enough.” 

The Chevalier growled as he took the chamber pot and replaced it back in its usual nook. “Hardly respectful to touch you like that while holding you against your will.”

“Well, the alternative was to let me sit there and piss myself. It was rather a lose-lose situation.” Philippe gingerly repositioned himself upon the pillows. That simple task had exhausted him. The Chevalier rejoined him in the bed, their naked bodies resting together in simple, easy comfort.

Hearing this new detail, the Chevalier held Philippe a little closer and a little tighter, as if he could protect him retroactively. “Those bastards,” he grumbled. “That they dared to lay hands on you at all still boils my blood. Thank God we found you in time. I don’t know what I would have done if I had lost you, my love.” He pressed a kiss upon Philippe’s brow.

“They weren’t going to kill me, you know.”

“What?” the Chevalier paused, looking down at Philippe’s head tilted upward upon the pillow. He had a sad look in his eyes. “They weren’t?”

“So they didn’t put that part in their demands, then?”

“They weren’t specific about what they had planned, now that I think of it. They merely suggested that if we ever wanted to see you again, the King would comply with their request. But, of course, we took that to mean they would take your life if he did not yield. What were they going to do, otherwise? Just hold you captive in that cellar forever?”

“Etienne told me I was going to be sent to the colonies, like so many of the Protestants my brother exiled.”

“What?” the Chevalier sat up in astonishment. This was a new detail, and given how narrowly he himself had escaped a similar fate during his imprisonment with Delphine, it hit a little too close to home.

Philippe didn’t make that connection. He assumed the Chevalier was simply in shock at the detail of the kidnappers’ plot. “Etienne was going to transport me to Le Havre after he got back from Versailles yesterday, and if Louis did not come through with a change to the law in favor of the Protestants by the deadline he set, he would put me aboard a ship that was bound for Louisiana. He said the arrangements had all been made; it was just a matter of if he would need to use them.”

“But that would never have worked! Who in their right mind would have allowed the Duc d’Orleans to be smuggled aboard a ship and taken all the way to America?”

“They were going to disguise me. Dress me in rough clothes, chop off my hair… give me the identity of a violent criminal or a madman, so that they would have had justification for keeping me restrained and gagged.” Philippe unconsciously pulled the sheet higher onto his body, covering himself more, and leaned closer to the Chevalier’s warm body. He felt cold again. “Even if I could have identified myself, they had figured out how to discredit me. No one would have believed who I really was. If I had gotten on that ship, it would have been the end.”

“I would have found you.”

Philippe heard the declaration, and knew his lover sought to reassure him, even without looking up at his face. “I know you would have tried. But the truth is, if it had reached that point, I would have died on that voyage. I never would have even set eyes on the New World.” Philippe felt himself shudder as he once again was plagued by the image of his dead body being tossed over the side of a ship, weighed down with an anchor to send him to the bottom of the sea.  _ And no one would have ever known what happened to me… _ he thought, tears once more pricking the edges of his eyes at the thought of dying alone and anonymously, away from all that he knew and loved.

“No, Philippe, listen to me!” The Chevalier’s voice interrupted his thoughts. Philippe blinked up at his lover, who had taken his face into his graceful hands and was now staring hard into his eyes. Pale grey-green met dark blue-green… the color of the sea he might have spent eternity in.  _ I would rather drown in his eyes than in any ocean,  _ Philippe acknowledged, as his lover continued. “You listen and hear me. You would have survived - I know you would have, because you are the strongest man I know, and the bravest,” the Chevalier said authoritatively, as though daring anyone, including his lover, to contradict him. “As long as you stayed alive, I  _ would have _ found you! It might have taken me some time, since you would have had a head start, but I would have searched every inch of the entire American continent for you. And I would have found you and brought you home again.” 

The two Philippes gazed at each other for a long moment. Then the Duc d’Orleans nodded and said, “You know, I believe you would have. I really do. Because I would have done the same if the shoe was on the other foot. I know I would not have been able to rest until I found you.” 

“And so it would be for me.” The Chevalier traced his Mignonette's exquisite jawline with the lightest of touches. 

“You  _ did  _ find me,” Philippe murmured, almost reverently. He reached up and fingered the soft blonde waves that framed the Chevalier’s enchanting face. “My angel. My beautiful, avenging angel…”

“May I kiss you, Mignonette?” the Chevalier asked, relishing Philippe’s hands playing within his hair and wanting to taste his lips. He nearly forgot to ask permission, but had remembered at the last moment - he did not want the ground that had been gained last night to be lost in the light of day. 

Philippe nodded, and raised his head to meet the Chevalier’s mouth. Soft and supple, they let their lips part, their warm tongues searching for each other. Philippe’s lips tingled with sensitivity; he might have thought they were bruised or burned if he hadn’t known better. They were merely tender, lighting up his body with sensation both new and familiar as he let the Chevalier explore his mouth.

A knock at the door broke the spell. “Yes?” the Chevalier called, as Philippe let himself fall back upon the pillow.

The door opened, and Liselotte’s voice softly drifted in. “I heard voices; I just wanted to make sure everything was alright.”

“You can come in, Liselotte,” the Chevalier smiled, tolerantly. Yes, she might be interrupting, but the woman deserved to check in and make sure her husband was still alive after being held prisoner for almost three days. She had already been more than generous with the private time she had given to them.

“Are you sure? Everyone is decent?”

The Chevalier leapt up and grabbed Philippe’s nightshirt that he had discarded on the floor. “Let me see, are we all decent? Well, according to the traditional definition of decency…” Throwing it over himself, he climbed back into the bed next to the naked prince and pulled the bedclothes back up over them both. “Yes, I would say we are decent. Come on in.” Philippe archly watched the blonde’s antics, but understood that despite whatever friendly intimacies the Chevalier and his wife shared, it would not do for Liselotte to see his lover naked in these rooms. His own body, she was familiar enough with. But for her own delicacy and her reputation, she didn’t need to see the full body of a man to whom she was not wed, even if said man was in her husband’s bed, not her own.

She peeked cautiously into Philippe’s bedroom, and noting that both men were, in fact, safely covered, came in. She was already dressed for the day, and she looked and felt refreshed after an uninterrupted night’s sleep. The security of having her husband home, alive and safely in the loving arms of his rescuer, was enough to make her sleep deep and profoundly restful. “How are you this morning? Did you both sleep well?”

“Personally, I slept like a rock,” the Chevalier smiled and stretched languorously.

Philippe attempted to sit up, to better address his wife, but grimaced at the ache of his muscles. “I apparently slept _under_ a rock,” he grunted.

She tutted sympathetically. “You're not in too much pain right now, are you, Philippe?” she asked, with a hint of motherly worry seeping through.

“I’ll be fine, eventually,” he responded with a wry smile. “I just think I might stick close to the bed for the time being.”

“But,” the Chevalier said. “A journey to Saint-Cloud might be in order tomorrow, or maybe the next day.”

“Saint-Cloud? Really?” Liselotte looked surprised, but not displeased.

“We already have the King’s permission,” the Chevalier said. “I think today is a little too soon to go anywhere. But if you’re up for it, and Philippe's not still under his rock, tomorrow we can set out. So pack your duds, my dear girl. We’re going to take our husband on a retreat.”

“Well, I think that will be wonderful,” she said with a smile. 

The Chevalier carefully extracted himself from the bed, making sure the nightgown covered everything that could be considered important. “And since you’re here, my dear  _ Liebchen _ , I am actually going to take this opportunity to step out and tie up some loose ends.”

“What?” Philippe asked, his eyes widening in dismay. “You’re leaving?” He watched as his lover pulled on his breeches and gathered up his other discarded articles of clothing.

“Oh, darling, don’t fret! I’m just going out for a little bit. The fete went on last night without me, but I am still responsible for the aftermath. I’m going to need to show my expenses and accounts to the council to prove I stayed within my budget - which I did, by the way - or else fork over the cash from my personal funds to make up for any deficit. I want to get all of that pesky paperwork out of the way before we leave for Saint-Cloud tomorrow. I don’t want those watchdogs to find any reason to call me back here and steal time from us.” The Chevalier leaned over and brushed Philippe’s lips, now in a full-on pout, with his own. “You go back to sleep like you planned, Mignonette. I wager I’ll be back before you wake up again.”

“And if you aren’t?”

“If I’m not…” the Chevalier searched for a suitable penance. “If I’m not back when you wake up, I promise I will massage your feet for an hour.” He smiled triumphantly. Philippe had a special liking for foot rubs, but that was usually the least enjoyable part of a massage in the Chevalier’s opinion, so he always skimped on that portion of the body. Usually he went out of his way to ‘accidentally’ tickle Philippe’s sole, which the Chevalier knew he hated, and that would make Philippe want him to stop working on that particular area. But his prince deserved some extra special attention, so he would be willing to put aside his foot aversion for the sake of love.

Philippe eyed him narrowly. “Two hours,” he countered. “One hour per foot. Plus however many minutes you make me wait for you. And no tickling.”

The Chevalier rolled his eyes, but placed his hand over his heart and bowed his head submissively. “As you wish. Two hours and whatever minutes, no shenanigans. Nothing but my total commitment to your comfort and desires.”

“Well, when you put it like that…” Philippe grumbled. The Chevalier again bent down to meet his mouth, this time giving him a full, deep kiss.

“I swear it,” he murmured. “I love you, Philippe. I shall return soon. Get some rest, my darling.” He pressed another lingering kiss upon Philippe’s forehead. “And I expect your wife to take excellent care of you while I’m gone,” he grinned, and gave Liselotte a chaste cheek-kiss and a broad wink as he slipped on his shoes. With a wave, his jacket, waistcoat, and all their lacy trimmings in a bundle under his arm, he excused himself.

As soon as he exited the Orleans’ apartments, his smile dropped. He first needed to visit his own rooms and obtain some fresh clothing. Then, with the Sun King’s permission, he would take care of his residual ‘fete business’ before he went to Saint-Cloud and put his entire focus on healing his beloved. There had been an element of truth to his explanation, but it did not involve paperwork or budgets. There was only one loose end that actually needed to be tied up, one account that still needed to be settled. And it was at the local jail.


	25. Chapter 25

After the Chevalier had left to attend to his errands, Liselotte allowed a couple of servants to come in and tend to the little domestic chores: emptying the chamber pot, building the fire back up, and changing out the water from the wash basin. 

As the servants scurried about, Liselotte rearranged the sheets upon the bed, making it look a bit tidier, just in case her brother-in-law were to stop by. Plus, she personally felt that Philippe would rest better in a properly-made bed. “Are you hungry? I was going to send for some breakfast, but I wanted to wait until you were awake.”

“I’m not terribly hungry at the moment. I think I’m too tired to eat.”

“Poor darling,” Liselotte frowned, trying to recall just how much Philippe had eaten at supper the previous night. “At the very least, I’ll have some options waiting for you when you decide you are hungry. If you would rather go back to sleep, I understand.”

“Well, right now, come over here and sit with me for a bit.”

“Really?”

“Yes! I haven’t gotten to really talk with you since yesterday - everything was so chaotic.” Philippe patted the mattress next to him, and Liselotte hopped up onto it, sitting next to him and putting her arm around him with companionable tenderness. “Are you well?” Philippe asked.

“Am I well?” Liselotte laughed. “Philippe, I’m not the one who was kidnapped.”

“No, I know,” Philippe shook his head, trying not to think about Etienne’s threats against her and the Chevalier when he had tried to escape. “But I know this whole thing was hard for you, and for Lorraine. I’ve already talked with him, but I haven’t checked in with you. Are you doing alright? I thought you looked pale yesterday, but you seem the picture of health this morning.”

“I admit the stress of not knowing what was happening to you ruined my appetite and my sleep. I am so relieved to have you home safe and sound. I can’t tell you how glad I am. You just… you have no idea.”

“Well, I’m not completely myself yet, but I hope I soon will be. And we can celebrate together tomorrow at Saint-Cloud.” Philippe smiled at the thought of retreating to his beautiful estate. His true home.

“Do you really want me to come, or would you rather I not?” Liselotte asked hesitantly.

“You’re my wife,” Philippe said, suddenly confused. “Why wouldn’t I want you to come? I want you to be by my side.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And Lorraine won’t mind, either?”

“You know very well he won’t.” Philippe felt completely confident in this. Besides, it had been the Chevalier who had instructed Liselotte to pack her own things, and he had deliberately said ‘ _We_ are going to take _our_ husband on a retreat.’ He had a sneaking suspicion they were both going to boss him back into full health. Frankly, after facing a real possibility of never seeing his loved ones again, he would happily submit to their bossing.

“I promise won’t intrude on your time with each other. But it would be nice to get away from court for a little while, to have some peace and quiet.”

“And maybe…” Philippe bit his lip, thoughtfully. “Maybe we could see the children?” It had occurred to him that a visit to Saint-Cloud might benefit everyone within his family. He had a deep urge to see his little ones, as well as to give Liselotte more reasons to smile after these painful days. Plus, he did hope, somewhat selfishly, that having the children to occupy her mind would mean she would not try to share his bed. It was bad enough he could not submit his body to the Chevalier. How much pain would he inflict if he couldn’t manage to do his duty to his wife as well?

Liselotte grinned eagerly at his suggestion, her whole face lighting up at the thought, as he had known it would. “I think that is an excellent idea!”

“I just want my family around me. I came so close to losing all of you, and it would reassure me to have us under one roof for a time.” Philippe frowned as he caught sight of his wrists. “But maybe in a few days? Once some of _this_ ” he gestured to his visibly battered body, “starts to fade a little bit. I don’t want them to be frightened by how I look.”

“Oh, pish. You are far from frightening. Little Philippe is so young I bet he won’t even notice. And we can just tell Anne Marie, if she asks, that you took a tumble from your horse, and that’s why you’re banged up. That’s all she needs to know. Oh, I would love to have the children visit us! It’s been ages. And it would be perfect because then we can let them know about the new arrival.”

“What?” Philippe blinked, taking in Liselotte’s mischievous smile. “Wait, what?!”

“I didn’t want to say anything until I was certain. I haven’t had my courses for 3 months now. I am quite sure I am with child.”

“My God! You are?” Philippe’s jaw dropped so quickly there was an audible pop, and he inhaled so suddenly he began to choke somewhat on his own breath. He started to cough as his lungs attempted to sort out the issue, and that made his chest ache even more than it was already, but it did not deter the barrage of questions that immediately followed. “But… but you have not been ill, not like before? Has there been a…” he broke off to cough some more, then quickly resumed his interrogation. “A doctor to attend you? Why didn’t I know?”

“Slow down, Philippe!” Liselotte quickly got up to fetch him a glass of water to try and alleviate his coughing. As her husband drank to ease his choking, she smiled and gave a slight roll of her eyes. “For heaven’s sake, just breathe. I told you I wanted to be sure. I have not been ill, just more tired than usual. That’s why it took me this long to be completely certain of it. I wrote to my aunt and she said second pregnancies are often easier than the first ones. Not always, but many times. It also might be different if I am carrying a girl instead of a boy. Little Philippe made me terribly sick those first few months.” Her expression dropped slightly, and she grew surprisingly unsure. “That… would not disappoint you too much, would it? If you had another daughter? I mean, I know how important sons are to the family legacy, and there’s no way to know for certain until it arrives, but…”

“What on earth are you going on about? Boy or girl, it doesn’t matter! As long as you and the baby are well. I would never object to another little duchess.”

“So you _are_ pleased, then?”

“Of course!” Philippe exclaimed, and pressed a fond kiss on Liselotte’s cheek. “I am delighted! And this time, I shall be here to help you through it all. I promise, I will be better this time. For you, for the baby. For all of my children.”

Liselotte gently tucked his hair back from his face. “I know you will. You are a wonderful father. And we talked about all of this - all that happened before is not your fault. You know that, right?” She looked at him, searching his face with her bright blue eyes. Philippe had been so broken when he returned from war, and she had not known how to fix things, and had felt increasingly helpless and frustrated when the one person who could have helped was also turned away. When Philippe had finally shattered before them, it was a turning point for her - the moment she realized that his demons were not something he could simply switch off. They had power and at that moment, they were winning. Even after the Chevalier was safely back by his side, healing did not come overnight. Philippe had had to come to terms, not only with the war, but also every decision and action he had made while in the grips of that darkness. And it had not been easy to forgive himself, or to believe himself capable of being forgiven by others.

“I… I know.” Philippe bit his lip, looking abashed and vulnerable. “May I…?” he asked hesitantly, indicating her stomach, which was already feeling a little strained against her corset. 

Smiling, she placed his hand upon her belly. “The babe isn’t kicking yet - it’s still too early for that. I doubt you will be able to feel anything. But he… or she… is in there.” Her smile wobbled a bit as she studied her husband’s bruised face, wondering how on earth he could still be so beautiful bearing those marks of brutality. “And this baby is so very happy its father is home, alive and safe,” she murmured, her voice breaking a bit. Philippe’s own eyes were growing shiny with tears, as his emotions overwhelmed him. He lay his head against Liselotte, keeping his hand upon her stomach, trying to visualize the growing child in her womb. Maybe another fine, strapping son to cement his dynasty, which already outpaced his brother’s? Or perhaps this time a sweet little girl he could spoil, and the Chevalier could decorate with ribbons and pretty clothes? _I almost lost this. I might have been sent away, or died, and never known this baby even existed. God, I have another chance. I will not let anyone keep those I love from me ever again._ His tears came unbidden, but he made no effort to stop them. 

As he wept, exhausting himself to the point of falling asleep once again, Liselotte stroked his long, dark hair, letting her own tears slide down her face. They were tears of relief and love, and sorrow for the pain he had had to bear up under. 

While it was true that she did not have passion or romance in her marriage (nor had she expected it - she had married for duty, as was expected of her), she still had great love and affection for Philippe. It wasn’t his fault that his natural predilection was not compatible with the female sex. They had found a mutual understanding, and even friendship, which she knew was a rare bonus in most political marriages. He treated her well and he had given her what she had desired most in the world, even more than being a wife: children. She was a mother, and that had been her heart’s desire from the beginning. If she had to do without her husband’s bed, it was fine. While sex was a pleasurable enough experience, she didn’t find it necessary to her happiness. Early on, Philippe had told her that, since she was being so kind and tolerant of his continued relationship with the Chevalier, if she wanted to find satisfaction in a lover of her own, he would look the other way, as long as she did not become pregnant with another man’s child (which was more for her reputation than anything else)... and as long as that lover wasn’t his brother. Rather appalled at the bizarre way he sought to be fair to her so that she might be content, she had almost laughed at what she assumed was ‘French humor,’ until she realized he was serious about it. Her predecessor had done quite a number on the prince’s ego with her indiscretions with the King… and with others, apparently (the Chevalier had told her of Henriette’s dalliance with Philippe’s earlier favorite, the Comte de Guiche, a handsome but terrible, abusive man that her husband had been infatuated with in his youth, before growing exclusively attached to the Chevalier). For God’s sake, if the woman had to be unfaithful, why did it have to be in ways that would be most hurtful to Philippe? But it was unkind to think ill of the dead, and poor Henriette’s miserable end had exonerated her of her life’s errors in the eyes of even the man she’d most wronged. Liselotte considered herself far more fortunate than that unhappy woman, who had been too blind to see Philippe for all his good points, and instead had focused all her attention on holding Louis’s gaze, when surely she must have known she could never keep him. And like Icarus, she flew too close to the heat of the sun.

As Liselotte gazed at her now-sleeping husband, she smiled fondly as she stroked his hair. Her life had not turned out the way she had expected; she was, after all, part of a pleasant family unit that included her husband’s male lover - and by God, she counted him as a friend and confidante, better than any lady-in-waiting. Philippe had done his duty to her, made her a mother. She would stand by him through all trials, and though she was untrained in warfare, she knew how to fight the sort of internal enemy that plagued this Prince of France. And fight she would, until he was secure in the happiness he deserved.

* * *

The prison was dark, even during the day, with only a few high windows letting in some dull light. Torches lit the corridors and provided some warmth against the stone walls and metal bars. While only a fraction the size of the Bastille, it served the needs of the community of Versailles. When he went to inquire about his reward, the King had informed the Chevalier that Etienne would be moved to the Bastille later that day for torture and questioning. The Chevalier knew a trip to Paris would take more time away from Philippe. So today had to be the day - once he had Philippe secure at Saint-Cloud, he would not depart from the prince’s side again.

Fabien Marchal met him and led him through the darkened halls to the cell where Etienne Barrineau was being held. He knew exactly why the Chevalier was there; the King had informed him the previous night when he made his report of the rescue mission. 

They stopped just outside the cell, a particularly special room that had several unique accommodations for obtaining information from unwilling prisoners. “You shall have free reign to do as you wish. I shall only stop you when your time is up, or if you are losing control. Remember, you are not supposed to kill him - that is not your task.”

“Understood,” the Chevalier said grimly. Fabien unlocked the door and let the Chevalier enter before him.

Etienne was cuffed and tightly bound with chains that suspended him from the ceiling of his cell. His feet were on the ground, but they bore no weight. There was no chance of freeing himself, nor any way to bring himself relief from the pressure of the chains, because there was nothing around to brace himself against or to provide leverage. A leather strap with a sizable knot in it had been tied between his teeth, wedging his mouth open and robbing him of coherent speech. This gag was far less forgiving than the one he had bestowed on Philippe; the leather did not absorb saliva as the cloth in Philippe’s mouth had, so Etienne had the added indignity of dribbling and drooling down his chin. The man looked exhausted, obviously having spent a difficult night in such a posture. Though, to Fabien’s consternation, when he had been told about the deaths of his comrades, he had shown no reaction. Not even hearing that his own brother’s skull had been crushed by the man who was supposed to be on their side produced any type of response. Fabien had to assume that either this was what Etienne had anticipated would happen and therefore was not surprised, or that he did not care one iota for the men who had died in that cellar… not even for his own kin.

“Ah, Monsieur Barrineau! We meet again. I do hope you are comfortable-” the Chevalier broke off with an angry laugh. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t finish saying all of that with a straight face. I suppose I will have to skip the pleasantries, because I really don’t give a shit if you’re comfortable or not. In fact, I very much hope you are in unbearable _dis_ comfort. And if you are not, well, I shall remedy that shortly.”

“You know,” the Chevalier continued as he began to slowly circle around the prisoner like a shark out for blood, his body taut with anticipation. “I consider myself a man of peace. I generally abhor violence; I prefer beauty and ease, parties and leisure. For that reason, many think me a coward, notwithstanding my past military achievements. I don’t generally care if I am viewed as such, because those that matter know the truth. But there is one area of my life where I will not tolerate any abuse or mistreatment, and will meet such violators with the force they deserve. That is the matter of the Duc d’Orleans. It is a core value of mine: no one ever hurts His Highness, or they must answer to me. Forget whatever the King shall do to such a knave who is foolish enough to disrespect his brother. _I_ am the one you should fear.” The Chevalier took off his jacket and hung it on a hook that was handily protruding from the wall, not stopping to think about why that hook might exist. He rolled up his sleeves so that the lace upon his cuffs would not become soiled. “You dared to lay hands on him, you intended to and _did_ cause him harm, and you had the audacity to use me to do it. For those reasons, I am about to show you what the wrath of God looks like. I’ll give you a little taste of what you have to look forward to when you’re finally executed.”

The blows rained down. Each time his fists met Etienne’s face and body, the Chevalier felt a twisted sense of pleasure. He did not even flinch when his knuckles split against the chains that held the prisoner as he pummeled him. Perhaps it was all the pent-up emotion from the past few days begging for release that he had not been able to find in sex, since this bastard had managed to arrange that Philippe would fear intercourse in the aftermath of his captivity. But each time his fists made contact with Etienne’s soft, defenseless flesh, each time Etienne gave a muffled yelp or groan of pain, it felt almost as good as an orgasm. Initially, he had only planned to recreate a map of the bruises that Philippe wore upon his own body. But, in the added time the King had granted, something snapped in him. _This man hurt my love. This man used me to hurt my love. This man would have stolen him from me and sent him to the other side of the world. This man left my precious Philippe in the custody of a murdering rapist and let his own flesh and blood die for the sake of his evil scheme. I hope he burns. Scoundrel… villain… devil… scum… son of a whore..._

“Alright, Lorraine. Lorraine!” Fabien spoke up loudly, the sound of his voice stopping the Chevalier cold. “Your time is up.”

“Just a minute more,” the Chevalier rasped, breathing heavily as he glared daggers at the bound prisoner whose face was a bloody mess. Etienne's head drooped, and he was wheezing through the leather gag, clearly finding it difficult to breathe through his profusely bleeding and likely broken nose. The spittle that dribbled from his mouth was red. Both eyes were nearly swollen shut, and the Chevalier was certain that he had felt bones shift beneath his hands. He hoped they had. “He hasn’t suffered enough. One minute more,” he found himself pleading, feeling most undignified as he begged for a little more time to pound in a face, and yet still very much wanting that opportunity.

“No. You have had your time, as agreed,” Fabien said sternly, though the truth was he had actually let the Chevalier go for a little bit longer than ten minutes. His own fondness for Philippe and outrage at what the poor man had endured had interfered with his sense of duty. But he still had a responsibility to keep this bastard alive until his execution day. “You’ve done plenty for today. Gather yourself and return to Versailles. The King has much more in store for this one. Let justice continue according to His Majesty’s will.”

Making an effort to get his breathing under control, the Chevalier collected his jacket from its hook. He carried it under his arm, for he was sweating profusely from the exertion of the beating, and his shirt clung to his back and limbs. Before he left, he turned back to the bleeding, wheezing traitor dangling from the ceiling. Etienne was glaring at him through his swollen eyes. “I don’t think I did enough. You still look better than your poor little brother did, after that monster Renard bashed his head in. Mathieu, wasn’t it? That was a truly terrible sight, seeing what I believe might have been a pleasant face utterly shattered. Did Monsieur Marchal tell you his forehead was caved in? How he must have suffered in his last moments. Such a shame - for it is obvious that boy was the better man between the two of you.” The Chevalier could practically feel the anger rising and radiating from Barrineau’s body. He smiled through his hatred, knowing his words were cutting deeply. “And you're the reason he's dead. You’re as much his murderer as Renard. I do hope your parents aren’t alive to hear about this… how you dragged your brother into a kidnapping plot against the crown, made him a traitor, and then got him killed. I’m shocked you can even live with yourself. But I suppose you won’t have to much longer.” 

Turning upon his heel and striding to the door of the cell, he spoke to Marchal in a tight voice, sounding most unlike himself. “Thank you for the time, Fabien. Let me know when the execution is set - we will be at Saint-Cloud for an extended stay, but I am going to want a front row seat.” Exhaling shakily, the Chevalier hurriedly saw himself out of the prison and back to his carriage. Once inside, he began trembling uncontrollably as the horses began to trot back to the palace. He had been so eager to confront Barrineau, to take out his fury upon his enemy. The details Philippe had given him that morning of the plot to send Philippe across the sea had only fueled his anger. The vengeance had felt wonderful in the moment, but now, as the adrenaline wore off, he felt bereft... and a little bit sick. 

Desperate to pull himself together before Philippe saw him, the Chevalier leaned closer to the open window of the carriage, letting the cool breeze calm him down. All he wanted right now was to be back in bed with his beloved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *A little bit of Henriette-scolding in this chapter. Historical Henriette was a piece of work, so there's a little mix of show and history here. And this is from Liselotte's perspective. I don't think Palatine would have personally thought very highly of Henriette if she had known her. 
> 
> Philippe and Liselotte did in fact have three children. The show did not touch upon their firstborn son, Alexandre, who died at the age of three, but jumped directly to their second son Philippe, who would later become Regent of France after the death of Louis XIV. She did have a daughter, Elisabeth Charlotte d'Orleans, after which Liselotte and Philippe mutually agreed to cease conjugal relations.  
> Historically, after the death of Alexandre, Liselotte, who was in the midst of her third pregnancy, experienced depression and worry about her unborn baby. Since we did not get Alexandre in the show, I touched upon that worry here with her pregnancy occurring at the same time as Philippe's kidnapping.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of sexy times as Philippe heals.  
> Another chapter to follow tomorrow morning.

The Chevalier arrived back at the palace right as the sky began to burst with rain, having grown greyer and darker on his journey back from the prison. The air had cooled a bit, which had settled both his hot temper and his curdling insides. _Next time, I ought not to rearrange a man’s face on an empty stomach,_ he thought as he made his way back to the Orleans apartments, where his lover was waiting.

It was peaceful in the suite, and the Chevalier instinctively lightened his step as he approached the bedroom, in case Philippe was sleeping. He peeked his head inside before announcing his presence. Liselotte looked up from the bed, where she was scribbling a letter to some relative or other (she was always writing letters to people, whenever she had a free moment), and she smiled at his arrival, bringing a quick finger to her lips. The Chevalier silenced himself and observed Philippe, sleeping soundly, which brought him relief. Philippe still desperately needed that rest so that he could recover his strength. “Has he eaten?” he whispered to Liselotte as she carefully slid from the bed so that he might take her place. 

“No,” she shook her head. “We talked and then he fell back asleep. It’s still early; I’ll have some things sent up, and he can have what he wants whenever he’s ready. I think his body just wants sleep more than food right now.”

The Chevalier nodded, though he made a mental note to be mindful of how much Philippe was eating. During his bad spells, he often ‘forgot’ to eat; after the war, he had come back thinner, as many men do with such hard living, and those difficult weeks that followed had brought no improvement. That was a wretched time, watching him become more delicate-looking, his clothing swimming on his already-slender frame, but being in no position to encourage him to eat or otherwise take care of himself. He could not allow that to happen again in the wake of this new trauma, not when Philippe was finally filling out properly and eating in a regular pattern once more. “How is he? When you two talked - how did he seem?” the Chevalier asked tentatively. There was a small, secret part of him that wondered how much of a show his lover was putting on for him, in an effort to keep him from worry. Yes, he had broken down the night before, but that was only after much gentle coaxing of a man who was already physically and emotionally spent. _What might he reveal to Liselotte that he would not to me?_

Liselotte could read his thoughts. “He seemed like himself,” she reassured him. “Feeling a bit sensitive, but that’s to be expected. He wants to bring the children to Saint-Cloud to visit, though he thinks his appearance is too alarming right now for them to see. I disagree, but maybe you can convince him otherwise. I think the little ones would do him a world of good. And...” her smile broadened as she lifted a hand to her belly. “I told him I was expecting.”

The Chevalier let himself smile at the revelation. “Finally! I was wondering when you’d admit it.”

“You mean, you knew?” Liselotte gasped.

“I wasn’t certain, but I had my suspicions. You have been desiring apple strudel quite often these past weeks. Was he happy?”

“I think he is. He promised he would be there for me and the baby… and it wouldn’t be like before,” Liselotte said, her face growing soft as she looked at her sleeping husband. “Don’t let him think about what’s past. Let’s keep him focused on the future. He needs that right now. He’s as aware as we are of what was almost taken away from us… and him.”

The Chevalier nodded. “We aren’t going to let him slip away from us again.” He kissed Liselotte gently on her forehead. “My deepest congratulations, my dear. You’ve given us something extra to celebrate, in addition to Philippe’s return. And celebrate, we shall!”

“I’m going to send for breakfast… or lunch I suppose,” Liselotte said, still beaming, radiant as only an expectant mother can be. “And then I shall start the packing process for Saint-Cloud. I think the sooner we get Philippe there, the sooner he’ll be able to really start healing.” 

The Chevalier agreed with her on that. Saint-Cloud was Philippe’s - his sanctuary, his haven, his retreat and true home. The Chevalier imagined it was his true home as well - the one they shared together. Saint-Cloud was Philippe’s personal kingdom, away from his brother’s palace and court, where he always had to attend on the King’s pleasure and whims. He drew strength from his estate, that place he had specifically tailored to his own impeccable taste, and there, surrounded by his family and his love, the Chevalier knew the prince could feel safety and ease.

As Liselotte stepped out to continue her tasks, the Chevalier slipped his shoes off and carefully climbed into bed. Philippe was still naked, the sheets tucked up around him to keep him warm. His dark hair spread out upon the crisp white pillows like a fan. His lips were flushed pink and slightly parted in their sleep-relaxed state. He looked so fetching that ordinarily the Chevalier might have spooned up behind him, grabbing him tightly and letting Philippe wake up slowly to his erection, so that they might enjoy a soft tumble before waking up fully. But the bruises and the knowledge of Philippe’s skittishness made him pause. _Not yet,_ he cautioned himself. _It’s not the right time to wake him up that way, surprise him from behind. Maybe in a few days time… Don’t spoil the progress you’ve made._

As he lay down, Philippe shifted, giving a slight moan, but not opening his eyes. “Love…” he murmured absently.

The Chevalier entwined his hand with Philippe’s, which rested upon the pillow near his face. “Shh. Yes, Mignonette. It’s me.”

Philippe smiled slightly, then his brow furrowed. “Means no foot rub…” he muttered, lips slipping into a pout. 

The Chevalier could not help but chuckle a bit at his sulkiness, even while sleeping. “For you, my love, I’ll do it anyway. Later.” He softly kissed the knuckles of the hand that he held, then leaned forward to brush a kiss upon the Duc d’Orleans’ pale forehead. “But for now, sleep. All is well, love.”

* * *

  
_He couldn’t move… the two men struggled together while he lay stranded upon the floor, bound tightly to the chair… Renard took hold of Mathieu, gaining the upper hand… he could not help the boy, he couldn’t move… Renard smashed Mathieu’s head against the wall, once… twice… three times..._

_Only this last time it came off in his filthy hands, and Mathieu’s decapitated body fell beside him… Renard threw the head upon the corpse… no, not Mathieu’s battered head… the Chevalier’s…_

Philippe snapped awake, hellish noises coming from his throat. The Chevalier was by his side, his hands hovering, pale with fear. “Philippe? My love, it’s me! You’re safe! It’s alright - you’re safe now!” he said urgently.

Philippe felt his lungs constricting. He fought to sit up, oblivious to the pain in his body. He couldn’t breathe… he had to sit up…

“Philippe, sweetheart, I need you to talk to me, okay? Please. Are you with me?” The Chevalier desperately tried to keep his voice calm. He did not try to help Philippe sit up, nor hinder him - he didn’t want to risk touching him and sending him into a panic until he knew for certain that Philippe was fully aware of his surroundings. “Darling…” he murmured gently. “Mignonette. Look at me. Please…”

Philippe, still disoriented, made eye contact with him and the Chevalier could see that it was finally registering in the prince’s mind that he had been dreaming. That realization made Philippe’s face crumble, and sobs began to pour forth. With no other word, he simply grabbed hold of the Chevalier and clung to him desperately as he broke down. All the Chevalier knew to do was hold onto his lover and attempt to calm him as the storm raged, both beyond the window and within the shattered prince.

He had been relaxing, lost in thought, while Philippe slept, when suddenly his lover had grown tense and begun to whimper. He had observed for a moment, to see what he was dealing with - was Philippe waking and experiencing physical pain, or was this distress from a dream? In a moment, he was able to see it was the latter. But Philippe’s usual nightmares, from his time upon the battlefield, proved to be a far different creature than what this was. Instead of flailing about against some unseen enemy, Philippe’s body had contracted and tightened upon himself, as though his limbs were being pinned down. And instead of screaming, his mouth had remained clenched shut, stifling the cries that were still pouring from his throat. The Chevalier had to surmise that he was locked in a memory of being restrained by those devils who had kidnapped him. But he could not ask about it until he helped Philippe master himself once more. 

As he held the sobbing brunet, Liselotte stuck her head in to see what was going on, having heard the commotion from the sitting room. She frowned and looked worriedly at the two men, but the Chevalier gestured for her to wait, indicating that he had things under control. Too many people around looking at him while he was unmanned would just make Philippe more distraught. Liselotte nodded, and removed herself quickly, delicately shutting the door that had been ajar since earlier that day when she and the Chevalier had first swapped places.

It took some time, but finally, beneath the blonde’s protective, loving caresses and words, Philippe’s sobs gradually lessened, and he started to maintain a more normal breathing pattern. “Can you talk to me, love?” the Chevalier murmured as he continued to stroke Philippe’s hair.

Philippe pulled back slightly, so that the blonde could see his face more clearly. “M’alright,” he sniffled. 

The Chevalier smiled softly. Philippe was making some sense now, and seemed more in command of himself. “Can you tell me about it?”

Philippe winced. “It was…” he trailed off. “Must I speak of it?”

“Well, it’s helped at other times,” the Chevalier encouraged, considering the coping strategies they had developed during Philippe’s battle-related terrors. Talking out the events of the nightmares often help to ground the prince in reality, to confirm what things were real, what were actual memories, and what were just cruel tricks of the demons that plagued his mind in his most vulnerable moments. “There’s no reason to think it won’t help now. Come, now. Talk to me, Philippe. Please.”

“I… I was back in the cellar, yesterday morning…” Philippe began, haltingly. “I was tied up on the floor, and Renard and Mathieu were fighting… I was helpless. I couldn’t stop them. And… and…” Philippe faltered as the awful images sprang to the front of his mind. “Renard grabbed him and smashed him into the wall… but… but this time… he ripped Mathieu’s right head off his shoulders…” Philippe felt himself choke upon the words.

The Chevalier winced at the terrible image those words conjured up. As awful as that boy had looked when he died, Philippe’s description magnified the horror tenfold. “Oh, my love,” he breathed, in sympathetic sorrow. “Dreams have a terrible way of exaggerating themselves. Yes, that poor young man died, and I know it has deeply affected you. But it was not as grisly as you describe. _That_ did not happen - he was whole. Remember?”

“But that’s not the worst part,” Philippe shuddered.

“What is?”

“I… I can’t…”

“Please, love,” the Chevalier begged. “Don’t stop now. This is important. Get it all out. It’s alright.”

Unable to look at the Chevalier, Philippe struggled to continue. “Renard threw Mathieu’s head at me… but when it landed it wasn’t his head anymore. It was y-y-yours…” Once more, hot tears spilled out of Philippe’s stinging eyes, and he tightened his hold about the Chevalier, drawing him closer, as if to prove to himself that his lover was alive and well before him, that this part was the truth and not the nightmare. 

The Chevalier’s mouth turned to sand at the admission. While the extreme violence of the dream shocked him, how much worse must have been for Philippe to have seen it. Not to mention being apparently unable to cry out or physically react. He shook himself back to the present moment, realizing he needed to comfort Philippe, no matter how much the details alarmed him. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry, darling. It’s alright. I’m fine. It wasn’t real.”

The thunder rolled outside, and the two men held each other tightly, slightly rocking back and forth, though neither knew who had begun that movement. As the second wave of sobs subsided for Philippe, the Chevalier whispered, “He cannot hurt you anymore. None of them can, and no other ever shall again. I was never in danger from them. It was just a bad dream, and it’s over now.”

“It's not the first such dream I’ve had,” Philippe whispered.

“It’s not?” the Chevalier asked, taken aback. He did not recall any such distress since Philippe had been brought home. What wasn’t he telling him? “When has it happened before?”

“While I was captive. I wasn’t sleeping very well... not at all, really, being so uncomfortable, but there was a moment where I dozed off briefly. I dreamed of you that time, too.”

The Chevalier puzzled over that. _Well, if he did, it could not have been the same dream, because Mathieu did not die until yesterday morning._ “What was that one about?”

“You were with me… in the cellar,” Philippe said, hesitantly.

“Was I captive too?” the Chevalier asked, remembering that Philippe had mentioned threats against him and Liselotte to gain his submission, and it hurt him to think of his lover being bullied into compliance by such manipulation. But Philippe shook his head.

“No… I was still bound, and gagged, and you were… touching me…”

The Chevalier’s jaw dropped. “You mean I took advantage of you like that? My God, Philippe, I would never…”

“No, no!” the prince interrupted, a look of regret passing over his face. “No, that’s not what I meant. You were… teasing me… but it was not unwelcome…”

“It wasn’t?”

“No,” Philippe whispered, feeling somewhat ashamed to admit how he had enjoyed that dream for the smallest moment, in spite of his predicament. “Anyway, you were… touching, and kissing me, and you went down on me,” he explained, not noticing the slight quirk of the Chevalier’s mouth. The rest came out in a rush. “And then, out of nowhere, Renard appeared and grabbed you by the hair, and cut your throat.”

“Oh. Shit.” The Chevalier was at a loss for words.

Philippe spoke in the smallest voice he had ever heard. “That’s why I didn’t want you to use your mouth on me last night. I… still remember it…” 

“Philippe,” the Chevalier murmured. “Look at me.” When the trembling man refused to comply, he reached up and tilted the beautiful face upward toward him. “Look at me, darling,” he asked again, and this time Philippe did so. “Do see me here before you? You can see that I am well; no one has harmed me.” He took Philippe’s hand and laid it upon his chest, holding it there with his own. “Do you feel my heartbeat? It beats with life, and it beats for you. I am _here_ , my treasure. I am alive and by your side, and that is where I shall stay. Easy now, love.”

“I am so sorry, Lorraine” Philippe whispered in humiliation.

“What on earth for?”

“For being… like this… being such a snivelling coward.”

“I am sorry, but no one may dare say such things about the man I love,” the Chevalier said firmly. He stared hard into the prince’s glistening, red-rimmed eyes. “I see no coward. I see what has always been before me - I see a warrior. It’s a different sort of battlefield this time, but you will conquer it as you always do. I shall fight by your side - you are not alone, Mignonette. And I am glad you told me these things. Please, never stop.”

“Even if they are horrible?”

“Especially if they are horrible. Burdens are lighter if they are shared. I wish to share yours, and ease you however I can. You don’t have to do this all by yourself.”

Philippe blinked with tear-heavy lashes, and sniffled. “Would you kiss me? Please, love?”

The Chevalier could not help the smile that beamed upon his face. “Gladly and always, Mignonette.” He caught Philippe in his arms, and their mouths met. He could taste the salt upon his lover’s lips, and he lapped it up. Philippe started shyly, but quickly grew more hungry for the Chevalier’s kisses as they chased away the shadows of his nightmares.

“My darling…” the Chevalier breathed into his lover’s mouth. “Would you let me pleasure you? Please?” He let his hand roam teasingly upon Philippe’s bare body.

Philippe was so caught up in the moment that he whispered, “Yes, please.” He let the Chevalier gently ease him onto the pillows, still occupying him with deep, needy kisses as his artful fingers began to tantalize his cock. He immediately felt himself respond to those touches. _I’m not so broken, then…_ he thought fleetingly. He gave himself over to the Chevalier’s ministrations, feeling his nether regions come alive, as though infused with sparks. The Chevalier moved to kissing his neck, and spent a moment concentrating upon that hollow at the base of his throat - a spot that drove him wild. Philippe gave a giggle that was also a whimper of desire, which made the Chevalier pay extra attention to that area, smiling into his lover’s skin and knowing the prickle of his mustache was causing much of the adorable twitching.

He was too hungry, though. He eventually moved on, trailing kisses down Philippe’s body, even blowing a naughty little raspberry close to his belly button that produced the most incredible noise from the dark-haired beauty’s mouth. “Gahh! You know I’m ticklish there!” Philippe yelped, dissolving into more giggles. 

“I do indeed know it,” the Chevalier grinned. “I know how every inch of you reacts… and I know about this part, too,” he muttered, grasping Philippe’s now-erect penis and bending his head towards it. Philippe didn’t fully realize what the Chevalier had in mind until he felt the tongue upon his tip. 

“Wha-” he gasped. “W-wait, wait…” He half sat-up, a look of worry on his face as he looked down at the blonde between his legs. “I don’t think… I’m not sure if I can…”

“Oh, darling!” the Chevalier said, pausing his actions. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I just wanted to pleasure you. I was not going to go beyond that. I won’t demand anything of you that you aren’t ready for. Forgive me.” He looked remorseful, and he removed his hand from Philippe’s shaft.

Philippe was torn. Everything had felt so good up to that moment, and he had to go and ruin it. All because of a damn nightmare. _Renard is dead. He can’t hurt me. He can’t hurt Lorraine. I cannot let myself be haunted by a memory of something that never actually happened._ “No, please. I’m sorry. I want you to keep going,” he asked timidly. “If you are still willing to?”

“Of course I am! But are you sure, love? As much as I crave the taste of you, I don’t want you to do anything you are uncomfortable with. Are you sure you would not prefer me to use my hand, like last night?” The Chevalier thought presenting Philippe with options might help soften the situation. He could see the struggle behind the prince’s eyes.

But Philippe shook his head. “No, I’m sure. I want you to. I do.” 

“If you are certain,” the Chevalier gently acquiesced. He let his hands resume their stroking. “But if you change your mind, just tap me on the shoulder. I will obey you,” he offered with a wink. It wasn’t exactly submission, but again, giving Philippe that bit of control would help him grow more willing. The prince would be willing to move a little further each time the Chevalier seized an opportunity to accustomed him to his touch, as long as he had the freedom to say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’

Philippe nodded, and watched the blonde head duck down to attend to his erection. His fingers curled into fists as his body lit up. He let out a moan as his fair-haired lover used his tongue masterfully, swirling and licking like a child with a sweet, until finally he opened his mouth and took Philippe in fully.

Gravity seemed to tug Philippe backwards into the pillows while simultaneously making his hips rise. “Ohh...my G-god,” he muttered. He reached down and entwined his fingers into the soft blonde curls. “I… I m-missed this. Oh, f-fuck. Yes.” 

The Chevalier willingly let Philippe thrust against the back of his throat, continuing to suck generously. As he heard Philippe’s moans and felt the hitch in his breathing, he smiled to himself. _That’s right, Mignonette. You’re close. Let me tend to you. Let me love you._

And then, Philippe tensed up and spilled himself, with a shuddering gasp. “Shit!” he breathed. The Chevalier swallowed, and with a final, specialized swirl of his tongue (a move he often called “the palate cleanser”), he slid his mouth off of Philippe with a pop of his lips, like a champagne cork coming loose. He grinned at the panting Duc d’Orleans with lips made red from friction and slick with saliva and seed. 

“Was that alright, love?”

Philippe nodded, a spent smile glowing on his flushed face. “You haven’t lost your touch. I’m sorry I did not last longer-”

“Oh, hush!” the Chevalier said, climbing back up toward him. “All that matters is that I satisfied you. I did, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Philippe whispered. “Sweet Jesus, yes. You always do.” He burrowed into the Chevalier’s chest, only to pull back suddenly. “You’re still fully clothed,” he realized.

“Why, yes, darling,” the Chevalier affirmed, with some confusion. “I have been since I returned.”

“Well, take them off. You should be naked with me.”

The Chevalier chuckled and bent his head to kiss Philippe’s ripe lips. “I shall, but first, you must have some nourishment. There’s food here for you, but we thought it best to let you sleep. But now that you are awake, you need to eat. After all, I just have,” the Chevalier grinned slyly. “We cannot let you go hungry.”

“I don’t really need anything-”

“No, no. Now, Philippe, you must get something in your stomach. I’ll fetch some little morsels for you. I’ll even feed them to you.” That was a little game they often played together, popping grapes or small macarons into each other’s mouths, following it up with kisses, and it would usually escalate from there. Either way, both would be full by the end of the meal… in all senses of the word.

Philippe pouted a moment, then said, “Can you be naked when you do so?”

The Chevalier threw his head back and laughed. “If you wish it, my little hedonist. And then, if you would like, I shall make good on my promise of those foot rubs.” 

Philippe’s eyes gleamed. “Very well,” he agreed, a smile quirking his lips. 

The Chevalier began to make his way to the main room where the food was sitting, but paused at the door when he heard Philippe call his name. “Lorraine? Thank you… for your patience… and for… for loving me.” It was similar to what he had said that previous night, and again, it made the Chevalier’s heart beat faster. 

“No thanks needed, my sweet love,” he said huskily, then continued out the door. This was a big step that he had just accomplished. _He’s healing. He wasn’t afraid to let me touch him, to pleasure him, even after those horrendous nightmares. It's a step. He will be alright. Everything will be alright now. I shall make him well again._


End file.
